Tides of the Sun
by Kamagua
Summary: Shattered and broken, Azeroth has been left a hollowed shell. And while the champions scatter to battle the Great Destroyer, others find themselves withering as does their world. But when Azeroth bays, it will be these few that heed the call of destiny...
1. Chapter 1: Feasts

_**I felt like something new, again! But this time, I decided to alter course with the changes here.**_

_**Anyway, enjoy!**_

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"Ero?"

A gentle wind passes betwixt the two iron-clad warriors upon the stone parapet, an unwritten ode to the fleeting moment of silence.

"Ero?"

Another calm gust whistles past.

"Ero…"

"What, Krik? What in the world do you want?"

The warrior known as Krik blinks as if confused; despite being the one to have incepted this situation. His mind draws a blank, and it is clearly etched with the wrinkles – or lack thereof—upon his face. Though, it is quite common for the boy to act this way. It is, after all, in his nature.

Krik is an easy-going creature. The young lad sports a simple short-cut brown haircut and a features a simply adorably face that seems to have achieved its most rugged features back when he was fifteen. He has never been one for complications. He also has never been one to hold his tongue. So when a question arises he has no choice but to put it to rest before it congeals and forces his head to popping.

Alas, he also has the focus of a goldfish, thus leading to his current dilemma.

So now he shuffles quietly as he attempts to rediscover why he was bugging his comrade so unyieldingly. Fortunately for this man, patience is a prime characteristic of the other.

Krik smacks his lips in efforts to draw his flat-lined mind a pulse. However, it is not with his own movements where the reoccurring revelation reappears, but with the shifting tides.

"Ero!" Krik slaps his friend's arm and points towards the horizon at the setting sun. "Don't you just love starring into the sun as Azeroth eats it for dinner?"

Ero hesitates, praying that he heard that correctly. Shifting his head slowly, Ero cocks an eyebrow and readies his puzzled face. Of course, he doesn't truly need to prep for his baffled state; Krik gave him the proper motivation already.

"Krik," Ero stares at the child as if peering at soar glass of milk, or at the mailman after receiving an unopened package from his mother, "what is wrong with you boy?"

"What?" Krik is once more sporting his own puzzled face, "everything gets hungry. Even Azeroth. So, I mean, the sun looks like a giant toasted orange, so why can't the planet eat it?"

"Are we really having this conversation?" Ero pauses to rethink his comment, "is this even a conversation to begin with? Maybe you are just having a hallucination from a second overindulgence of those mushrooms you love so much."

Krik gasps, "That was one time, Ero! One freaking time. Can't you let it go?"

"I would if you didn't continue to have random relapses." Ero eyes Krik head to toe, shaking his head in acted disgust, "look at you, twitching and what not. Flipping out again, I see."

Driven to his own self-doubt, Krik glances down at his still, unmoving legs and stiff torso. The boy has a prominent posture given his normally apathetic demeanor; of course, the military could have simply beaten it into him.

The boy snorts as confidence fills his person once more, "Ero, you are seeing things. You sure you aren't the one hyped on Darkshore Dank?"

"Hyped on what?"

"You know. The common mushroom of these lands. Darkshore Dank. Everyone knows that." Krik smiles as Ero ponders the comment seriously. With the smirk, however, Ero discovers his fault.

"Krik." Ero narrows his gaze, mentally drilling his way to the boy's heart – his irritation formed more from the fact he almost believed the boy. "Those are called Darkpods. And, if you actually read the nifty three-hundred page informational packets given to us then you would know you also shouldn't ingest them."

Blinking numerous times, the boy stares at Ero as if truly taking the comment to heart. His lips form a tight package of focus and mental-debate. Shifting eyes signify his wandering, searching mind. It is then, as his eyes lock back upon his friend that he speaks his findings.

"They gave us a packet? To read? That's stupid."

Ero sighs, "Reading does help get you prepared for life's dealings, Krik. Like that one time you fell into the excavating site to the south, or that one time you ate a mushroom that made you run through town half-naked screaming about rabid wildkins."

"Hey, there are lots of crazed fluff-chickens in these parts." The boy shuffles in his spot, formulating a grand reasoning to his madness, "I was simply alerting the Elves to the possible threat loaming outside."

Ero chuckles as he readies his already calculated move, "You shouted about how they ate your clothing and mugged you. In that order."

Krik glances left and then right, searching both halves of his mind for a suitable excuse. "Hey, I still cannot find my clothing from that night, or my money, and you still haven't checked the owlkins for either yet."

Ero blinks, baffled fully. Quite pleased with himself, Krik smirks and waits for a response.

Ero frowns, agitated disbelief the basis to his rebuttal, "Boy, you cannot talk your way out of late arrivals to patrols, yet when I ask you about that one night, you suddenly become the master of escape artists. What is wrong with you?"

Krik shrugs, once more hunting for a proper reply. This time, however, it doesn't take him long. "I blame the mushrooms."

Shaking his head, Ero reluctantly accepts defeat. Sighing, he glances towards the horizon as he attempts to limp away from this one with some of his sanity. And he finds his distraction. Before him is a sight of glorious proportions: an amber ball of fire resting upon the murky tides. One-half stands in the sky, its defined edges spewing scarlet and orange rays majestically. The lower half lies skewed upon the rippling waves, bleeding a darkening concoction of ruby shades across the waves.

Such a marvelous sight, almost so much so that Ero feels compelled to agree with the boy's initial comment – to an extent. Yet, the entirety of Krik's crazed remark why have some truth behind it: for as the sun vanishes beneath the planet's edge its image upon the water elongates, expanding as if the infernal flames are devoured and smeared across the seas, digested by the navy blue plane.

And as Ero gazes onward, enjoying every second, he notices the Krik too has left his mind to wander. It is easy to lose oneself in the glory that is this spectacle. So few are welcoming phenomenon upon these lands that all other wealths seem…impoverished.

Both continue gawking, feeding along with the planet; their meals one and the same. Even as the sun nestles fully beneath the horizon, the lingering flares all that remains to flicker upon the skies, they continue gazing. For, if only even a few fleeting seconds, the two can feel the riches that are the tides of the sun.

"What are you two morons doing?" A high-pitched, shrill voice catches the two off-guard. It would seem their day-dreaming left them deaf to the swift, delicate footsteps of this woman. "I swear. If someone isn't watching you two then you have some personal vendetta to dig your own graves."

Spinning, the ironclad warriors catch sight of the feminine creature that looms over them. Fine, tan leather hugs the sleek curvature of the elegant, maroon-skinned woman. Fragments of foliage litter her garments: twigs, vines, etc; the decorations to match of her druidic background.

One of her hands is wrapped firmly upon the mid-section of a staff while the other is locked firmly upon her hip. A bent elbow and shifted weight upon said limb signify her current frustration. Of course, the twisted purple lips, and glaring teal eyes could be another set of possible determinants to said notion.

The two warriors, however, care not for the supple pair of lips, but are focused squarely upon the commanding orbs. These eyes are the prominent portion of her person: they strangulate the toughest of champions, dwarf the stoutest of soldiers, and strike fear into those thought incapable of such.

Fine, magenta tattoos run symmetrical patterns that drift as makeshift eyebrows, and curl downs upon her firm cheeks. These markings intensify the already glowing optics, especially at this time of the day. At dusk, her eyes make the transition for the twilight's haze, making it appear as if her eyes are on fire.

And the teal flames that waft forth are simply terrifying. This holds no less true for the pair standing beneath her wrath, watching as her hefty chest heaves in unison to the flames' curling waves.

"Just planning to stare?"

Ero shifts, taking a brief moment to concoct his own excuses precisely as Krik had to him. The man swiftly glances at his younger companion before instantly glancing towards the menacing maneater. He shrugs and tilts his head towards the seas, "We were watching Azeroth eat the sun."

She cocks an eyebrow. "You were what?" Throwing her staff forward, she silences them before they dare reply, "You know what? I don't truly care what you imbeciles were up to. All I know is that I have spent the last hour looking for you dumdums, and that is enough to boil my blood."

Her eyes narrow to slits, her utter hatred condensed. Eros, however, has grown quite numb to her overwhelming malice. Frowning, he shrugs off the barrage of optical annihilation as if a fly and replies, "The first problem with all of this is the fact you are actually looking for us." He braces the cold stone beneath him and shuffles from his perch, "Which sends me to asking why are_ you_ looking for us?"

The night elf widens her gaze, not too much so, and stares intently at the figure she deems a fool. She wasn't expecting him to care nor rise to question her intent, but nonetheless the idea had crossed her mind. She grips the cane tightly with one hand, and sighs.

She may dislike the imbeciles, but they are her responsibility, "If you must know, then the northern command has requested the use of some of our troops for a rather important mission."

Eros eyes her intently before speaking, "How far north we talking?"

Returning the gaze, she locks eyes with him. The night elf forgets the older of two actually has a brain beneath his sickly flesh. She also forgets that he has a knack for actually using it, "If you are inferring that someone somewhere other than the ruins of Auberdine cares that you exist, then you may be half right." She lifts her free hand to halt any signs of joy, "But don't assume the Northern Command actually cares for anything other than your actual body. They need just it, remember. Not the name that comes attached."

The ironclad warrior dusts the plate upon thighs and frowns in disdain. He forgets that the woman has a tongue within that pretty skull of hers. He also forgets that she has a knack for using it in all the wrong ways.

"Ok, Druid, I do appreciate the complete disregard for our value, but could you just tell us what we are needed for? I'd hate to watch you drown in your own compounded loathing." Ero steps up upon the wall, coming to eye-level with the elf – almost.

Her thick boots scrape against the sloping earthen mound the wall is erected upon and gazes towards the sands that the young Krik still faces. She takes a moment to eye the back of the boy's head before casting a rather distasteful glare at Ero.

"Recent activities in the bordering shores of Ashenvale have gained attention of our commanding officers." Unable to completely focus, she gazes at Krik once more, her hatred spewing from her gleaming, bright eyes. "We are not certain what is happening, or the significance, so we need…" Suddenly she exhales heavily, lifts the bottom end of her staff and jabs the back of Krik's head, "Child, are you listening?"

He promptly rubs the tender portion of his battered head prior to shifting angrily in his spot. It takes but a moment for the child to notice his assailant and leaps up upon the wall. She snorts at his eager repositioning and rams the rod back into the dirt.

"Long story short, go south. Cross the border into Ashenvale and keep hidden. We don't need you two getting caught by the orcish guard there." A fierce gaze is cast at Krik. It drifts slowly towards Ero, expending its full fury upon the boy before landing upon him. "Hug the mountains and get a good few of that eyesore of a post. If you find anything out of place, note it. If you find anyone out of place, note it. And don't. Get. Caught."

Once more her eyes narrow, this time upon Ero. He is not quite sure why she eyes him so forcefully, but he cannot hope but assume it's for a greater purpose other than her overwhelming disgust of his person. But that is hoping.

At that she swiftly pivots upon the soil, shifts across the darkened terrain as if gliding and marches towards the brackish thicket that one could call a forest – if death could be deemed so lively of things. Her body quickly vanishes in the shroud, but her eyes, those teal spheres of converging emotions, those orbs of compounded rage, pierce through as if the dark fathom naught of touching them.

And they land upon our ironclad warriors once more. The spheres stay locked, their target clearly their bodies, and strike at their souls as if a starving murloc gnawing at a fish tank. It is then, as a burst of smoke skews her vision, and the spheres eerily descend towards the forest floor that she emits one last word.

A word coated so easily in disdain, duplicity, and curt notions that one can almost taste its vile intent. "Humans."

Now only knee-high, the spheres dart into the forest, their attaching host's form clearly altered. Or possibly she just enjoys running on all fours. But, she is a druid, after all.

Ero glares at the forest, eying the woman as fiercely and spits at the ground. "Shape-shifting harlot. I hope a bear eats that cat. Oh, the irony."

There is a sudden burst of light from behind Ero's position. Most would have jumped at the spontaneously occurrence, but within these forests that is simply part of normality. Ero, still fixated upon the darkness ahead, barely notices the boy crack his light into existence.

Krik, however, loves these jars and all that dwell within them.

"Ero?" Krik stares at the multitude of gleaming, slowly buzzing bugs within the delicately crafted glass jar. They emit an emerald glow strong enough to light a path, but easily confused as a mere reflection of the moonlight at a distance. It is a calm, humming light and an ample distraction for the boy. "Ero?"

"What?" He spins, facing the boy and his bug-lamp. "Oh, enjoying your little friends again, are we? Figure that is the most intelligent thing you have done all day."

Reaching into a pocket upon his belt, Ero pulls out the exact same glass container and gives it a gentle shake. Dozens of bugs drift into liveliness and fill the once dull jar with the same grand glow. Ero, however, lets the bottle fall to his side with his rocking arm. He takes to his feet while the boy continues to watch each insect fly about as if their small world is limitless in span.

"Ero?"

Silence is all that follows – say for the heavy crunching of the older man's boots.

"Ero?"

Silence. Ero halts. No movement nigh.

"What, Krik?"

Silence.

"What are we doing again?"

Ero sighs and waves at the boy, beckoning him. Breaking from his jar, Krik gives the partially lit man his partial attention. Ero, however, has all his attention squarely upon the lad.

"Come, we have a long walk ahead of us. I'll fill you in." Slowly, Krik takes after him. Alas, he begins to drift back to the light as if a moth to a flame. Ero gives the child a gentle shove and frowns. "That is, if you stop staring at those stupid gnats long enough to pay attention."

Weak footsteps echo across the forest, the only sounds say for the delicate whispers that radiate almost inaudibly upon the air. They are all but invisible, say for the set of flickering lamps that appear as if a small army of fireflies upon the skies.

The little bugs dare not match the sun's rays, but they will have to do.


	2. Chapter 2: Dilemmas

Darkshore…

A name once fancied misconstrued, misleading, and miserably given; now, the properly fitted attire for this dire forest's dreadful demeanor. Trembling seismic seizures tore the land asunder, shifted plates decimating the town of Auberdine. Earthen scars run veiny, sprawling patterns across the forest floor, filling with the ocean's bounty. These newly formed rivulets are deceiving to any wandering nomad; their depths wild and sporadic. Even the most skilled of adventurers can find themselves treading the bed only to discover a deep, watery grave. And amidst the flowing canals, born from the depths and the heavens combined, is a spiraling vortex of complete and utter destruction.

Spilling from origins unknown, the winds violently thrash from a sinkhole placed squarely upon the forest's epicenter. The upper portion of its sprawling funnel can be viewed from as far as Ashenvale, and is a daunting signal for any foolish enough to venture to these lands. With every passing day, the airy tornado appears as if expanding. Its color constantly altering to that of which it feeds upon, and trees constantly become uprooted projectiles of vile destruction. Sheer chaos manifested upon the winds, spinning unyieldingly, night and day.

Yet, where the land may suffer, its flesh tore and tattered, there is hope amongst the ruin.

Resting above the chaotic crust is a ceiling born of gorgeous azure bounty. A heavenly bastion unscathed. An aerial scene of beauty. The skies, though assaulted by Deathwing's Flight, remain as marvelous as ever. It is where a mind will wander to escape the despair, the darkness. Now if your neck grows tired, worn of bending, then it is upon the shores where the dark-blue seas ripple as a suiting replacement.

Gentle waves roll , spraying salty pockets upon the breeze. Rhythmic tides sprawl across the grayish sands, spilling the ocean's riches for all to embrace if for only a few fleeting seconds. A glorious plane. A marvelous setting spanning from horizon to horizon. And, if it is not enough in its own worth, then the gorgeous heavens reflect upon the glassy aquatica so one may feast upon both treasures simultaneously. At night, the ocean becomes a vain display of the Moon itself; its reflection so grand the Moon cannot help but grow envious of its own image.

It is this occurrence, the moon and the seas, that is the truest price for the Night Elves of these forests. It is the strength to their resilience and the way of their courage. Even our heroes cannot escape the magnitude and glory of the moon and its twin. Even our heroes yearn for the night, just so they may be led by the tides and the moonlight. But, of late, a foreboding darkness has been descending upon the twilight. Of late, an eerie fog has shrouded and skewed that of desire. And tonight, of all nights, a dense, unwelcome haze coats Darkshore fully.

A cover that shrouds the heavens and obscures the bountiful blue waves…

"Ero?"

"Just ask the damn question, boy. You are beginning to make me hate my own name."

The two hold near to the shoreline, yet still remain quite within the forest's grasp. Krik glances occasionally towards the coast, yearning for a simple taste of his waters. As he walks through the thicket, dodging boulders and roots, he keeps his eyes locked to his side.

Krik frowns, his inquisitive nature at play, "Why can't I see the water?"

Why can't he see the water? Eros knows that the moonlight always burns as a reflective guide for those thought lost. He knows it is visible from all aspects of these sloping lands. The boy is simply letting his imagination get the best of him.

Yet, he feels compelled to humor the lad.

Ero twists, his disbelief of the boy evident; however, as he finds himself facing where the ocean should be, he quickly notices the dilemma. The pair are no more than a dozen yards from the forest's edge, and on an average night that would be ample distant to keep a view on the watery flank. But this night, he can barely get visual of the forest's end.

This, however, raises a greater concern within the old man: light. They normally use the Moonlight as a guide once it nestles upon the skies. It would seem they will actually need their little glass dwellings after all. Ero sighs and reaches for the bug jar, shaking it gently. The heavy glow returns, coating the two in a teal, optical paint. Krik instinctively throws his gaze upon the now gleaming glass. Oddly, he casts a gaze upon his own jar and then returns to his companion's.

Ero, the jar of no curious dealings to him, speaks as Krik stares at Ero's bugs, "Quite the observation, Krik. Honestly, if you didn't say anything I...wouldn't...have...noticed..." Ero loses interest in his own inceptive ramblings as he watches Krik gawk at the jar he holds. "Krik?"

The boy narrows his gaze, examining the container as if the grandest of puzzles.

"Krik, you really should pay attention."

Krik keeps his eyes locked. For some reason he Ero's jar is different. For some reason it seems brighter than…

_PHWACK_, Krik wobbles rearwards as the tree wins the fight of forces. Pain surges across the child's cheek, but fortunately for him his nose was just out of reach. Krik throws an angry stare at the towering, obstacle and gnarls his teeth.

"Stupid tree." He gives it a swift kick with his boot, tearing a small chunk of bark from its flesh. "There, now I can remember which one you are, so I can come back, cut you down, and make a chair out of you."

Mild frustration dances upon his words, and Ero cannot help but smile. He isn't sure if it is the boy's humiliation, agony, or comment that humors him more. He chuckles feebly, catching Krik's ear.

"What are you giggling at?" An angry set of youthful eyes land upon him, "it is your fault I hit that tree. You and your stupid super bugs."

Ero cocks an eyebrow, yet keeps his smirk, "Super bugs?" He glances at the jar in his hand. For a moment he gawks at it prior to shifting his gaze upon Krik's container. It takes him but a moment for the revelation to appear: his jar burns brighter – significantly. Ero shrugs, his smirk fading to a frown, "Not a clue, Krik. Not a clue."

Krik eyes Ero as if attempting to read him. Intent focus is exerted. Narrowed, inquisitive eyes probe and peruse Ero's facial features. The child may not be an intellectual genius, but he knows when someone is lying. And though Ero may possess a poker face of the ages, Krik knows he is hiding something.

"Ero." Krik stays calm, his intent covered. "Are you lying to me?"

Alas, the boy is not one for subtly. Ero flinches not, his hand played well; however, despite his confident appearance, he has no proper response for Krik. He likes the boy and isn't keen on deceiving him. Of course, he isn't keen upon the course of this topic either.

Fortunately for him, a sudden spark in the left corner of his vision catches his eye. Twisting, he lets the current anomaly alter his, and Krik's, attention. In the distance, a mere twinkle of life, yet still just that, an orange spark burns profusely.

With it comes a sigh of relief for Ero. With it also comes frustration for the questioning that is inevitable…

"Ero?" And so it was written. "What is that?"

Rolling his shoulder, Ero attempts to remove from him a discomfort that suddenly formed within the joint. He knows fully where it developed: the armor, shield, and all that it encompasses dragging upon his person. Though, even with that given logic, he cannot help but place Krik's annoyance as the source…

"Ero?"

"Krik." Ero swiftly replies, his grown impatience apparent, "just because I do not have an immediate response doesn't mean I don't have one coming. Give a man a second to formulate an answer before you make sure he knows his birthright."

Krik turns, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

Ero sighs, "Never mind. Just…never mind."

Krik heeds his words and returns focus upon the distant spark of life. He raises a hand and forms a "C" with his fingers and thumb. Ero is dumbfounded at first, but quickly deciphers the boy's actions: he holds his hand as if bracing the source in its grasp.

The boy tilts his head to the side as if bemused and grunts, "It's growing."

"Growing?"

Ero squints, letting his aging eyes land upon the oscillating source of light. It trembles as if unrestrained. It quivers as if moving rapidly and wildly. The three rings that encompass it go from white, to orange, to red, and as the boy stated, the rings seem to gain circumference with each passing second. Both of the warriors, almost in unison, discover the light's true source.

Krik runs his armored fingers through his hair and sighs. "Ero. Is that a fire?"

"Took the words out of my mouth, Krik." Ero takes a step forward. "I didn't think we were that close to the pass yet."

A strange surge of chills creeps across Ero's spine as he gazes at the ball of distant warmth. He is not quite certain what drives the frost that now creeps upon his vein, but there is a reason. Krik, however, frowns and glances at Ero with widen eyes.

"This isn't right."

"What isn't?" Ero instinctively replies.

Krik glances at the fire, shuffles uneasily and then casts his gaze back upon Ero.

"Night Elves don't light fires at night, Ero."

Ero makes to reply, but a distant rumble quells him. A second flash erupts near the first. This one, however, climbs into skies, its core flickering in and out of sight above the canopy. It takes but a few moments for the soaring flare to fall to gravity's sway. It takes but a second for its size to nearly double. In a flash it tears through the trees, collides with the floor and explodes.

Red flares ripples into the sky. White flames spread as a blanket. Orange tendrils snap and multiply upon decaying branches. The explosion strikes nowhere near, yet the flames can be felt. And the light that is secreted illuminates their once bleak armor.

The fires dance across the bed of earth, the decaying rot a fine fuel. Shadows form eerie, unrestrained puppets upon the two warriors. A welcoming visage for the blind. A grand display for those easily amused. And a horrifying revelation for those that remain…

"Come on, Krik." Ero takes a step to his side, eying the fires as if they are readying to chase. "We need to get out of the forest…"

Krik holds still for just a moment, but he knows better than to linger when danger looms. But their movement is for naught. The two are allowed a few meager steps before the horizon stirs into motion. At the fringes of the forest, dozens of rapid flashes ripple. They streak upon skies – shooting stars for the naïve.

Death for the wise…

Ero's eyes follow the burning tangelo trails and his chest clenches. "Run, Krik! Run!" Ero spins upon his toes, tearing dirt. "Incoming!"

Taking to flight, the boy obeys promptly. Roots snap beneath heavy soles. Soil is sundered by metallic stomps. Silence creeps upon the air, the loud trampling lost upon one's ear. Profound stillness strangulates the two as their breathing and pounding hearts become all they know.

Say…for a faint whistling….

Ahead lays the coast, the fires burning a path for one's sight and our hero's flight. The falling terror casts a growing light upon the land, expanding as the projectiles grow ever closer. A short distance for both the men and arrows. A shorter distance for the latter. Shrill wails stir the winds. Fierce, unnatural gusts shatter the heavens. Flames flick and lick the branches. Slivers of orange rain upon the forest unmercifully.

Dull thuds thunder. Brief hisses sizzle upon the eardrums. All around descend the shafts of chaos. Trees ignite on impact. Tuffs of dried grass explode into miniature infernos. Impaled, the wooden instruments stand tall as tombstones.

But the two do not flinch nor flounder. A spike shoots past Krik's head, heating his scalp. Wind catches Ero's hair in an arrow's wake. Neither hesitates nor loses haste. This is not the first the two have fed upon a shower of these magnitudes. And from experiences past, one must keep focused. One must keep stern lest the terror overwhelm you.

Their target…the coast…

In a flash they dart to the thicket's thinning. In a flash they approach their destination. Even as the arrows continue to strike, they continue onward. And as the downpour intensifies, the wails a growing roar across the heavens, the two make their escape - fires snapping at their heels.

Leaping forth, Krik and Ero descend the stout, steep incline and land upon the sands below. The ground rises well above their height and makes for perfect cover. The two hug the round curves of grass and sand and hold still.

They dare not look. There is no need for such foolishness. Instead they listen, hearing hundreds of thuds that beat as deafening drums. They feel: every collision a miniature tremor. They wait: patience a sense grander than all the others combined.

Moments pass upon the backs of snails. An eternity becomes infinity. And yet, as quickly as it began, it ends. All sounds cease, say for the lingering rounds. Illuminating energies fade, the rising inferno incapable of matching that of the aerial flares. All calms. All steadies.

Silence returns once more.

"Is it over?" Krik breaks the stillness.

Ero pans his sight, sweeping the skies for any remaining blows. "Looks like it. For now, anyway."

Krik comes to his feet, his eyes level with the forest floor. Heavy plate boots crunch the sand below as he takes steps to get a better view. "Do you think they were aiming for us?"

Bounding to his feet, the old man dusts himself off and directs his gaze back to the forest, "No. They wouldn't have used so many for just us."

Krik glances once more at the still burning forest and sighs. He knows full well of the orcish assaults, but this one was closer than usual. But that is no concern for him. That wasn't even _as close_ as in the past; a pathetic attempt at their lives. Yet, as he gazes at the spreading fire, he cannot help but agree with Ero's remark.

They were not aiming for them.

Then what were they aiming for? Krik, despite his usual curious dealings, dares not dwell on that topic. Most likely an orc saw a wandering kitten and wanted to make sure it, its family, its neighbors and the wandering deer got caught in the barrage. Overkill, to an orc, never applies.

Ever.

Krik, quickly losing focus on his own mental ponderings, spins in his spot. He takes notice of the average, dull sand and Ero's wide, logical stare. The old man is most likely attempting to piece together the situation. Krik, however, wants none of that nonsense. He simply wants to see the water.

Pivoting fully, he embraces the watery banks. Alas, as his eyes fall upon the waves, he finds himself wanting. For as he peers out, expecting a moonlit plane of blue, he sees only a dense eerie cloud of gray. The anomaly spans from the heavens themselves and curls down upon the rippling tides. Krik cocks his head and grunts.

"When has there been fog here?"

Ero twists, eying the water. It takes him a moment to reply. "Honestly, Krik, I cannot remember the last time. Heck, I don't recall the last time it was cloudy at night. The elves feed upon the moon like ravenous hyenas. Their Elune mumbo-jumbo."

"Then why is it here?"

Ero makes for a rebuttal, but his is voice is lost as his lips sunder. A simplistic, almost childish question, yet profound in its magnitude. He cannot fathom why this fog would be here. No weather altercations could explain for its appearance. Not even Deathwing's gifts would explain it. Yet…there it is…

Krik sighs again, bored once more. "Now what? Should we keep moving?" The boy twists towards Ero, "or go tell the angry elf of this?"

Ero eyes the boy and then shifts his gaze upon the haze once more. He lets his focus linger for just a moment longer before replying, "She told us to make it to Ashenvale. So, we keep going until we get there."

Krik nods and spins upon the sandy mounds. Delicate pockets of gray whip to his sway as he marches with a wobble down the shore. Ero, hesitant at first, takes to his feet while the current riddles of life bear down upon him.

His eyes lock upon the shore once more, letting the expanding murky mist consume his focus. He has not a clue of its origin, but it sweeps the seas and crawls towards the coast with unnatural haste. It devours all light, shrouds the heavens, and saps ones morale.

For a brief, unwelcome second, the old man lets a horrific thought cross his mind. A notion that would certainly gain notice of the Mistress. But he dare not let it hold for long. He dare not ponder the truth behind it. To do so is too much for even him…

He, instead, throws his mind from the waters and to the now raging inferno to his side. White cores suckle upon the forest floor, spewing orange and ruby waves upon the skies. Thick, black smoke billows towards the heavens, while lit trees crackle and cry in anguish.

The orcs would be fools to light the forest without some logic. Night Elf's would make easy prey of any Horde foolish enough to come within reach of the flare's reach. So, why in the world did they strike here? Why in the middle of nowhere? Was there truly someone or something of importance within this area? Or, quite possibly, was it the forest itself what they were after?

All plausible questioning, yet no plausible answers to follow. And now, as he holds upon the second situation at hand, he finds himself baffled and irate. He is a man of focused reasoning and desired logic, but he cannot dare conjure a rationale for neither the fog nor the fire. Such a situation drives him to frustration and complete bewilderment.

But must not let it get to him. He must keep calm and ready.

So, as he marches upon the coast, his eyes now drifting upon the boy ahead, he finds himself following the same path as Krik. No point in attempting to pick apart the undefined. No need to disassemble the intangible. Instead he quickens his pace, aims his attention upon catching the boy, and lets the rest drift away.

At this moment, he knows that of all things left unanswered, that there is one truth: time is still on their side. He will get his reasoning and his logical plots eventually. He simply needs to feast upon the grandest of senses. Let patience be his guide. For despite that which has occurred, he knows it has only just begun.

And that the night is still very…very…young.


	3. Chapter 3: Twilight's Flame

_**Back once again,**_

_**Simply writing to let you know that I am not ignoring you. My stupid stomach is fighting everything I eat, and recent allergies have left me...blehed. So the last chapter I posted was amidst an allergy med drug-a-thon, so I was pretty content I got it up. So, just to make sure you know i am not ignoring you, his name WAS supposed to be Eros; however, for some stupid reason I put Ero. Though, once I noticed the error I decided to leave it for later purposes. So, long story short, it was unintentionally intentional.**_

_**Hope that solves that. Yeah...**_

_**Anywho, here ya go.**_

_**Enjoy.**_

* * *

"Ero, quickly." Anxiously the boy beckons the sluggish man, his hand motioning wildly for Ero's haste, "Over here."

Slowly Ero moves to his young companion. It takes some coercing to motivate his legs, but once the internal rust is removed, he darts to Krik. Both hunker behind a large, mold ridden boulder resting upon the coast.

"Krik, what did you see?" Ero, still lost in his own dazed pondering, has left himself numb to his current surroundings. "What is…"

Before the old man dare complete his statement, his revelation bears down upon him. It is as a deep, raspy boom: a voice that is harsh and unfeeling: a bay that is bitter and brash.

"Night Elves! In the name of the High Warchief Hellscream, these forests belong to the Horde!" The vile call ripples upon the heavens, "And by such, your actions have swayed his hand! In the name of the Horde, the Warchief has degreed these lands be cleansed of your filth!"

Its boom echoes upon the charred vale, "He has declared the sun be blotted with smoke from your smoldering value!" His voice amidst the flickering fires is all that beats for one's eardrums. "Not a tree left untouched! Not a shrub left unscathed! All shall be turned to ash! All shall be scorched! There will be nowhere to hide. Nowhere."

Despicable, overconfident ooze drips from his words. Vile, maniacal glee is plastered upon his tone. The roars of the fire snap at his spoken pace, as if one with his speech. "Your gods cannot save you now, Elves! Know your shrinking place in this world! Know…the glory of the Horde!"

Ero peeks over the peak of the stone. Ahead rests the tree line, its once glorious holdings now a silhouette casted by the raving fires. Shadows span the floors creep towards the shore and vanish amidst the grander darkness. Auburn waves of fiery damnation whip towards the heavens, fading into plumes of strangulating black smog.

Amidst the illuminating rays of the rampaging inferno are blackened figures. The same shadows that play with the sands flicker upon these monsters. Bodies are shrouded while gnarled faces are intensified – a maniacal mystery molded upon their person; a dramatic display of the beasts that now march in droves across the burning thicket.

Within the epicenter of the commotion and of the advancing army is a large, gray wolf. The beast trots calmly through the crackling carcass that is this forest. Its black armor quivers with every filthy paw placed, glinting to the sway of the flames. Bright orange eyes secrete a fine aura of hatred, matching only that of the inferno…and the fiend mounted upon its back.

Plated armor hangs from his shoulders and slithers down his entirety. Its color remains skewed - the fires constantly tainting its originality. It, for a few fleeting moments, is bronze in hue. Then, as the flames waft to the breeze's mercy, it fades to black to match that of his heart.

From foot to neck he remains hidden beneath his iron coating. No flesh exposed. None…say for the teal, wrinkly leather that is his face. Thick, unkempt hair resembling that of braided charcoal runs from his chin and scalp. Two oversized fangs protrude from his lower lips and curl towards his hallowed eyes that rest within his hollowed skull.

Those eyes holler intimidation. They scream hatred. Nothing of compassion or sympathy burns from the beady orbs. A blend of all aspects attributed to that of demons radiate from those eyes. And as he bounces to the pace of his pack, those defiling optics stay fixated upon the target ahead, upon the chaos he orchestrates.

An orc…

Ero quickly grows certain of his uncertainty. Casting his gaze back towards his own destination he discovers some comfort in his findings. A short distance down the coast rests the base of a sloping mountain. He knows well of this mountainous' peaks origins and structure.

Spanning from the sands, it runs a near straight line inland – perpendicular to the waters. High and mighty this natural wonder forms the boundary for that which is Ashenvale and Darkshore. It also serves as a marvelous barrier.

There are but two narrow passes forged as merciful crossings by the planet's pity. Those who command said passes would wreak havoc upon those foolish enough to transgress. And, fortunately for these land's denizens, the Nights Elves hold strong upon those chokepoints.

Or, given the advancing orcish Horde, it would be far better suiting to say _held_.

Drifting from the mountains, Ero focuses back upon the waters. He keenly eyes the allowing coast, and quickly takes notice of his future route. He also feeds upon that which chills his core. Cuddling the coast - like enraged fists to a foe's throat- the fog floats menacingly.

The tides are but a dream now. The heavy haze has shrouded the near entirety of the waters – its hunger unyielding. Wandering strands of the mist roll gently upon the skies. Gentle tendrils creep across the coast. Its reach unrestrained...

"Ero?" Once more pounds Krik's voice, "we need to get moving."

Ero shifts his focus upon the boy briefly. He glances back towards the marauding monsters, then back to the child once again. He takes but a brief passing to form a response and directs his gaze on the coast. "Ok, Krik. When I say move, move fast and keep low. Don't stop for anything. Run as you did during training; when you beat those wimpy, long-eared daisies back at Auberdine. "

As he finishes with Krik, Ero throws his head over the boulder. Fires rage on, their flames birthing rolling shadows. The infernos briefly illuminate the shores. It stays lit for a moment then the shadows creep back in. Ero holds. He waits patiently. The fire's rays light the coast once more. Thirty seconds counted, and then the rays begin to slither away from the shore. Shadows return…the coast darkened a second time.

The cycle is noticed. The rotation calculated. This is it.

"Run."

Snapping like a hare to a cougar's pouncing, the boy leaps from his cover and sprints full throttle. Ero holds close, his shoulder tilted forward, his knees bent. He wants to keep his size minimal. He has no desire for discovery.

The sand slips beneath their boots. Darkness hugs to their persons finely. Five seconds pounded within his mind. Distance is covered swiftly. The beach coming to its end. Ten seconds counted in his head. Krik begins to gain on the old man, but their paces are true to heart.

Fifteen seconds passed.

Beach fades to rock. Light's warmth tickling their ankles. They are near, but the shadows are diminishing.

Twenty seconds.

Illuminating beams are bright upon the corner of Ero's eye – his armor reflecting the fire. Krik loses the man in his haste, the boy upon the rocks.

Twenty five.

Ero must hurry. He is in the full light. His feet pound wildly in his head while his heart races. Though, the beatings seem far too swift. They seem out of unison. As if his own boots are hitting more rapidly then they should be…

Thirty…

Ero nears the rock, but his ears do no deceive him. He hears not his feet alone. There is another set…

He grips the handle of his blade, whips it free and spins. Pulling it to his front in unison to his pivoting person, he has but a second before his truth is told. Slamming against his blade is a jagged axe. Sparks rain upon his brow as the swift strike is deflected. But man is in a poor position: an awkward posture.

Spinning, the enemy's axe heaved towards the heavens, Ero throws his back and shield towards the foe. _CLANK_, metal upon metal screeches his blocker struck. Ero's body shakes violently, but he falters not. Sand is kicked to his spiraling person. It is thrown upon the air, skewing all visages.

Ero heeds not. Instead he snaps his shield and skillfully grips it. Coming to his feet he makes for a second block. Metal cries once more. Vibrating iron rattles his person. His eyes blind, but his ears feasting upon the shuffling foe's feet – the sand a screeching banshee. It is repositioning.

Lowering his shield, he lets his eyes hunt. It takes a second to find the fiend. A few yards away stands the villain. Solid black leather lines the character's legs and arms. Dark shoulder pads are all but invisible in the twilight. But now they are greatly eclipsed by the fires that conceal the shadows once more.

He takes no notice to the rest of the beast; except for the vile eyes for which his lock upon. Each orb spews hatred. Each eye bays for blood. Their eyes launch mental assaults. Both warriors hold strong, but doubt finds Ero.

He didn't see the monster in the woods. He didn't hear it coming. He didn't even know it existed until it was upon him. Ero's scans the beast, hoping for answers. He sees the axe of the onslaught. He sees the slowly dancing beast. It is then, upon its belt, that he sees an array of short knives. It is a scout. A stealthy rogue.

Of course…

Locking eyes once more, the silent hunters hold still. The two let their gazes brawl. Their bodies shift counter clockwise as if one. Their feet shift upon the sands simultaneously. They hunt for their own strengths. They yearn for the other's weakness. And as they take another step, the warriors readying, the orcish fiend suddenly smirks.

His target's folly discovered…

Reaching at his side he retrieves a dagger by the blade whips it rearward and then hurls it forward. His person is still as if the arm is a separate entity. The blade whips upon the breeze. It tumbles end over end. Ero locks upon it, shifts down and dodges it completely. Yet as he does, the sounds of displaced sand fills his ears.

Eros instantly knows of his foolishness. Once more the man is awkwardly placed. Once more he has left himself exposed. Lifting the shield, his intuition his only guidance, he prepares. _CLANK_, metal upon metal. Vibrations roll down his arm. Instinctively the man thrusts his sword.

He tilts his head, his eyes free to follow the strike. Slashing the beast's side, it is but a glancing blow. Before he dare retract the sword, the orc reaches for the blade grabs the very metal it itself and fiercely wretches it from the man's grasp. Blood coats the blade as the orc swings the weapon rearward and lets it fly into the thicket.

Ero makes to react, but the orc already has his prey where he wants it. In a blur of a moment, the orc shifts backwards lets a leg catapult forward and catches the man in his chest. Tumbling to the impact, Ero is sent to his back.

Moist sand caresses his cheeks. Waters slaps the top of his head. Heavy armor sinks in the sands. The man is not fazed, but there is no need. As he throws his gaze back towards the orc, the man's weapon dislodged and his shield sunk, he feels his chest tighten.

With axe in his hand and monstrous glint in his eye, the orc strolls towards Ero and lets a sinister smirk form upon his face. For a moment it holds, letting Ero know full well the victor. And then, with a swift jerk of an axe he readies the strike…

Suddenly the orc spins in place, his eye finding something out of Ero's gaze. Sounds of shuffling sand fill the air. Swift poundings roll across the gentle grains. Oddly, the orc repositions itself. In a flash a new figure shoots into view, blades swinging.

A long, elegant sword descends as a slicing blow. The orc bounds backwards. A thrust shot forward. The orc dodges, but has not a moment to spare. Falling once more the first blade makes for the kill. But the orc is swift, dodging again.

The iron-clad figure spins mystically upon the sands, stirring water-soaked pockets upon the air. His arms move perfectly. His body dodges an axe with ease. The boy is a dancer – the battlefield his stage. The orc that so easily defeated Ero is barely capable of matching the boy's movements.

And as the orc moves for an overzealous strike, the boy lunges forth. Sounds of metal against flesh, snapping bones, and muffled grunts fill the air. The orc twitches violently, moving to the blade that mysteriously vanished into his gullet. Yet the beast flinches not. Vile eyes drift towards the lodged blade and then lock to the child before him.

Blood driven and crazed, the orc simply smiles and then lets forth a grand cry. The bellow echoes upon the skies. The holler traverses the heavens. Yet it lasts for but a moment. For as quickly as he opened his maw, the boy throws his second blade straight through the orc's lower jaw, impaling it to the upper.

Left upon his feet, eyes rolling into the back of his head, the orc dies standing. Using this time wisely, the boy retrieves the sword within the torso, wipes it upon the orc's leather, sheathes it and repeats with the latter. Before the orc even make for his peaceful rest, the boy has time to pull from his frozen grip the axe. Falling rearward, the orc slams into the sands, an outline of sand stirred with his final motion.

Krik, however, spins towards Ero, reaches down and smiles. "Poorly played, old man."

Ero reaches upwards, takes the hand and lets the boy pull him to his feet. There he shakes the sand from his person and smiles rather joyfully. "Yeah. That wasn't one of my finest moments."

"Ah well, at least he only beat up your dignity." Krik briefly glances back at the orc and then peers towards Ero once more. "Here." He raises the shaft of the weapon towards Ero. "He took your weapon, so I took his."

Ero chuckles, if not out of overwhelming relief then out of boy's rather bizarre humor. "Thank you, child." He takes the rather finely crafted axe, its weight perfectly balanced, and holds it for a moment. "Not a half-bad weapon."

"Yeah. Not to mention you always struck me as an _axe_ man anyway." A grand smile sweeps Krik's face. It is almost as if the young boy had been waiting to say that for years. Alas, his moment is cut short. For it would seem the short cry of the felled orc did not go unnoticed…

"Filthy human pig-dogs!" Another raspy, grotesque growl radiates from the forest, drawing the duo's eyes back to the tree line. "Your blood will coat these beaches!"

Still amongst the forest, a trio of orcs appears as mere blackened figures; the only definable features noticeable are the orcs' standard wide girth, gentle waddles, and the usual vile crackling voice. The flames of the forest and the shadows skew their armor, their true nature, and all other aspects.

As the two stare upon the black, orange, and ruby horizon, Ero lets his wise mind wander. He calculates the odds and the all the variables. Each outcome considered and all battles drawn. And once all has been determined and laid, a final thought crosses his mind. A notion of the early night and that annoying woman. The ideal behind his advance.

So much for not getting caught...


	4. Chapter 4: Mist

"Hold still, humans." Shifting shadows of shrouded serpents loom in the inferno's wake, "We would hate to make a mess." Axes glint, their fine outlines glorified by the fires.

Krik reaches for the fine blades. Battle position is posted. Yet, as the boy prepares for an uneven brawl, he truly desires for another course. Any...other...course. "Ero." The boy's feet shuffle rearwards while his fingers curl around the cold, leather handles. "You got something or are we gonna just stand here?"

"Keep your calm, Krik." Swift eyes scan the quickly darkening coast. They peruse the sands and seek a route. "Great plans are not born in a flash."

"Great?" Krik watches the villains march towards the incline of the beach, "I am just asking for any plan. Anything works. I am not picky."

Gentle waves vanish beneath expanding plumes of murky mist. Once glorious trees are devoured by creeping aerial spines of growing fog. Ahead, standing above the low-hanging clouds as if hovering are the sloping sides of a mountainous terrain. Their target. Their destination.

"Ok, Krik. I got an idea," he keenly observes the intensifying fog, noticing full well its so-to-be advantage, "we head to the mountain base."

"Ok, how do you plan on doing that?"

"By moving..." Ero speaks above a whisper.

"By what?"

"Run, you ninny!" Ero pivots upon the sand and catapults a limb forward. His voice booms, "Run!"

Krik throws an overwhelmed gaze at Ero, and swiftly sprints after the rather lacking runner. "Run?" He catches the man as they hurry towards the stone wall ahead, "that is the best you could come up with?" Krik shifts to Ero's side, catching the old man's gaze as he passes with ease, "I could have thought of that!"

Ero makes to reply, but his lungs must be preserved. It has been quite some time since he needed to exert such energy. Alas, he knows well of what must be mustered. For as he hurries for the slowly dissappearing boulders, the sounds of grunting orcs and their stampeding hooves boom upon the air. Quite a shame, he thinks to himself, he had not a clue of an orc's speed. Honestly, he has never had the need to run from an orc before. Usually he just went to them, or he waited upon solid legs. But ignorance could not disperse the knowledge of the single option: running was the only way out.

He only hopes now his ignorance doesn't kill him...

But it would seem that his calculated use of the fog was wiser than he could imagine. With every passing second their surroundings seem to fade into a brackish gray. Sands beneath their very feet seem lost to the eye. Rocks they so keenly focus upon diminish in the expanding haze. Even as their metallic soles clank loudly upon the rocky inception of the mountainous plane, their eyes are left wanting.

Tendrils of gray smother the skies. Wafting breezes carry strands of wisping mists across the vast stone wall before them. In a moment's passing, the two lose sight of their goal. Neither can determine the distance now. And as the two barrel onward, the sand fading to heavy boulder, they find their hasty fault.

Skidding, his eyes now alerted, Ero just barely catches himself before a sudden steep rock wall sneaks up on him. Dismayed, he cannot believe the rate of this moving fog. He takes a moment to the eye the brown rock, laden in fine gray particles. Engraved into the surface are slithering patterns of silver that glint in the dull, foggy twilight. Quite a marvelous display of natural...

"Ero!" Krik hurls his distant voice down the slopes, "stop starring at the rocks!"

Taking heed of the already scaling Krik, Ero joins the climb. With all due haste, the man bounds up the first, second, and third naturally carved step. Iron feet scrape loudly against the fine earthen material. Chips clank as solid rain. An array of sounds reverberate through the haze; though, the sounds they used to focus upon are lost amongst the chaos. The orcish grunts have ceased. The enemy has grown silent, but the two know better than to let stillness sway their resolve.

In a minute, Krik scrambles upon the tallest portion of this stony route. He peers down upon the minuscule view his visual empire. Alas, his optical span is naught to the haze. On a normal day he would be able of seeing down to the oricish compound. Today, however, catching glimpse of the mountain's base would be astounding.

Stones wail as Ero scampers to match the boy's elevation, "Krik, give this old man a hand." Grunts and more screeching soles, "I hate heights."

Krik chuckles and throws his reach downwards. His mitt wades through the fog until finally the other's is caught. With a swift jerk and steady legs, Krik gives Ero the final energy needed to scale the peak.

"Man, Ero, age hit you like a kodo." Krik shuffles upon his bastion as Ero pants heavily. "Last time I let you climb something, mister. You might break a hip."

"Shut it, boy." Ero takes a deep breath. "Have you forgotten the orcs? Or do you simply wish for them to...," another breath, "...sneak up on us?"

Krik shakes his head at Ero and peers back upon the cliff. No movement stirs the haze. Krik, wanting to silence Ero fully, keeps still and lets time relay any message willing. A minute passes; their slowly steadying lungs the only sounds on the breeze. Another minute elapses. Not even an insect or gentle breeze stirs within the thick, merciless haze.

And so Krik finally states the obvious."Ero. I don't think they are following us anymore."

Ero hesitates, the truth behind Krik's words overwhelming. After another few seconds he turns around and replies, "Yeah." He pauses, letting his ever forming mind do just that. Upon his heels he pivots, finding a steep incline to his rear. "So much for this marvelous advantage." He sighs, knowing full well the next step. And if anything vexes this man more than ascending than it is descending. "Let's move. This point is worthless to us now."

Krik glances towards Ero, noticing the fine quiver in the old man's legs. "Ero. You just want down."

"Of course I want down. Do you think I really feel like tumbling down this...rock...while inside a metal deathcase?"

"Well, you could look at it this way," Krik smirks, "at least you would move faster."

Ero glares at Krik, "Cute. Very cute." Ero steadies himself before continuing, "Ladies first, Krik." He motions at the rock, signaling his companion.

Krik silently chuckles, his victory complete, and gracefully bounds down the opposite slope, descending with no caution or concern. Ero, however, keeps a timid pace. There is no such thing as swiftness when it comes to Ero and descent. It takes a bit for both to find the flat surface, but Ero is wildly relieved once grounded. Once upon the soft sands, they halt, eying the field of nothingness before them.

Krik, the hesitant creature now, creeps slowly through the fog. Ero, on the other hand, keeps his usual walking pace. His figure sweeps the fog eerily and majestically. it takes a moment for his form to begin to fade, and Krik is far from accepting of such a dilemma, "Ero, hold up. I am sure as hellfire not losing myself in this fog."

Ero grunts and turns a cheek towards Krik, "What happened to your speed, swifty?"

Krik moves to Ero's side and frowns at the overzealous old man, "Just lead the way, grandpa."

Triumphant, Ero turns from the child and begins an analysis of the surroundings. Ero cannot make out much of anything, but he dare try. After a few moments hunt, one item draws his attention. A short distance ahead is a stout, round construct. From its rough edges and straight-line design it can be one thing: a wall. That must be where the Elves are positioned. Or at least it is a grand starting point.

"Krik, there." Ero feebly motions at Krik, barely able to signal the boy just a few feet away, "that way."

The boy squints, yet nothing is revealed, "Ero what is there?"

"One can hope it will be our saviors."

Krik flinches, his casted shadow flinching as Ero begins treading through the briny air. "Our saviors?" His words doubtful, yet curious, "you mean the Elves?"

"Of course, child." Ero vanishes in the haze, his voice all that remains of him. "First time for them to save us. I figured it would eventually happen."

Krik chuckles. Though, the child is not certain he does so out of true humor or nervousness. A fierce ball of tension is rolling upon his innards, riling him into a state of anxiety. It has been quite some time since he has felt this. It has been so long since his soul stirred as such. And he smirks for he knows it's nature is true and pure. Excitement is what courses his veins. Adrenaline is what twines his muscles. Oh how glorious a sensation.

"Boy?" The unseen vocals vibrate upon the vast haze, "are you following?"

His smirk folds into a descended crescent and he sweeps side to side as if someone is actually watching him, "I don't know. Which way did you go?"

Ero's meek sigh barely catches Krik's ear, "Just stay there, Krik. No point in both of us getting lost."

A moment of silence passes as Krik deciphers that daunting idea.

"Ero?"

"What?"

"How do I know that you aren't lost?"

Silence.

"I hate you, boy."

Krik smiles again. He caught that old man in a grand set of questions again. There are few feats of fancy to Krik, and irking that old man tops that list. Women would have to be a close second. Ah yes, a fine maiden upon his arm and...

Something stirs behind the boy. Twisting, he futilely sweeps the haze. He heard something. Though he may not know of its exact location, he does know his ears do not lie.

"Ero? Where are you?"

Silence.

"Ero?"

Silence.

Blood careens carefully through his ever-chilling veins. A profound silence creeps over him. His breathing is deafening. Echoing exhales and reverberating inhales rattle his person. The haze is like a limitless wall. And it is boxing him in. Panic drives motion into his limbs as he takes a swift step forward. Crunching sand booms like shattering glass. Another step taken, another explosion of crackling grain. A third. Screeching particles. A fourth. Alas, this one finds not the ground. Tripping, he snags something with his toe and tumbles forward.

Collapsing into fog, he lands on his hands and keeps his feet. His spine holds at a bent angle, his butt pointing as a fleshy cusp upon the air. Skillfully he pulls his pelvis down, bends his knees and pushes with his arms. Folding backwards, he comes to an odd kneeling position and takes a breath. He takes a moment to collect his persons. Scanning the floor, he angrily desires to find what dare trip him. Alas, what he discovers strikes him numb. Filling his nasal cavities is a foul, unforgettable odor. The stench is weak for its truest form, yet it is clearly described upon his senses. it is the vile fume...of death...

And it takes but a moment for his eyes to find that which pangs him...

Chills snap within his spine. Ice creeps across his veins and a rapid beat is drummed beneath his ribs. Outlined by the fog, just visible to his eye now, are the definite features of the horrific. It is the silhouette of what the boy feared most. It is a night elf.

Snapping rearward, his balance is naught. The Elf's limbs are outstretched, yet bent as if mangled. Blood-coated cloth is torn and tattered. Scars litter his pale-blue flesh, while lifeless eyes stare at nothingness. Maw sundered, lips formed to frowning, the elf appears as screaming in his last moments. As if...strangled...

Once again a sound chimes from nearby and he bounds to his feet. His useless orbs scan the solid gray air. Blind. He is almost completely blind. Yet he knows, beyond his visual comprehension that something lurks. Something...

Suddenly, to his dismay, the boy is dumbstruck by a second aroma that abruptly bathes his person. Sniffing the air, his nostrils feed upon it with disgust. Twisted lips match that of his growing nausea. It wreaks something horrid. Simply put, it is as if someone left moist cabbage out in the sun to rot, and then drenched it in rancid meat fluids.

He doesn't know why he knows of those smells, but he doesn't really care. All he knows is the combination is new to him. It is not quite as stomach-wrenching as a dead body, but it is still grotesque. Whatever or wherever it comes from, it must be found. It must found and snuffed before his stomach fails him.

Krik spins in the haze. As expected, he cannot see a damned thing in the mist. Twisting, he peers one direction and then another. Feet shuffle in the sand while muscles within his chest clench. With every turn, every pivot the smell intensifies, yet he cannot make out anything. And now, as lungs begin to heave and anxiety drenches his mind, he realizes he no longer knows what direction he is facing.

He has no idea where the wall or his aged companion is. But he must remain calm.

"Ero?" A firm tone is radiated from his lips. "Ero? Where are you?" A bit of unease coats the latter, but it is still presently confident. Alas, the silence unnerves him further. "Ero?"

Then, as his voice begins to falter, there is movement in the haze. A darkened outline that resembles a man appears. Relief cools his racing heart and slows his rapidly fluctuating lungs. "Ero, I was getting worried there for a moment."

The figure takes a step forward, with it wafts a greater concoction of the grotesque, rotted cabbage aura. Another step is taken, and oddly the figure appears as if growing. No, it is simply getting closer.

"There is a dead elf here, Ero. The orcs must of taken the beach as well," Krik's eyes land upon the currently still figure. It sways, its head bobbing as if confirming, "we need to get out of here."

Silence.

The man before Krik holds still for a moment longer. Another step is taken, the outline still stretching. The calm found begins to fade.

"Ero?"

Silence.

Closer now, the figure is but a half-dozen yards away. Wildly fumes smother the boy. Uncertainty his weakness, his fear…

"Ero…?"

With the proceeding movement taken Krik's heart all but stops. Muscles tighten and instinctive hands reach for his weapon's handles. It…isn't…Ero…

Before him a figure bears within his hand a weapon never before seen by the child. Its shaft is long, matching that of the child's entire height. Vile, unknown strands dangle from the rod while a gnarled, pointed end protrudes towards the heavens. And it is held by a man beyond the child's own height…

It shifts in his spot, rolling its upper body and leaning back to its most upright position. Now it stands twice that of the boy. A near perfect outline looms in the fog, the distance betwixt them narrow. Heavy air drags the stench to unbearable limits.

Krik's veins freeze at the sound that booms from the haze. It's words appear as inquisitive, but the tone screams of vile delight, "You seem lost, little human." It moves forward, the fog breaking to its gigantic proportions. "You seem very...very...lost..."

Bursting through the fog, the figure of his nightmares emerges. Looming over him, its size dwarves the child. Thick legs are coated with waterlogged coverings. Barnacles stick firmly to clothe. Tangled weeds drift from splices in the seams. A rusted belt buckled rests beneath a shirtless torso. Its very flesh drives Krik's bones to quivering. Dark green and slimy, the skin's very structure matches that of the weeds upon his pants. Muscles are defined, yet lost to the slippery coating that hugs his flesh.

But all is lost to its epicenter of horrors: lost to its gleaming glare.

Tilted downward, its giant human head is cocked towards the ground. Dark-green, almost black, strands of clumped hair dangle from his scalp and hang towards gravity's sway – the sea's foliage upon his head. Growing from his chin runs a beard with same hair matching. It holds to his chest and climbs just beneath its nostrils and its eyes.

They are the same eyes that are nearly shrouded by its unkempt, thick hair. The same eyes that burn as dull, teal embers. The very same orbs that fall upon Krik and form a maniacal display. And from them spew a vile intent that drives the boy to fear.

Krik gawks at the monstrosity before him, his hands frozen upon his blades. And as he does, a second figure appears behind the first. A moment elapses. A third creature emerges. The boy stands locked, the three monsters looming before him. He knows not of what to do. His body is lost in the terror. He cannot move. He doesn't even remember how to. All he can do is gaze, lanced with terror. All he can do...

Suddenly, as he stares with unblinking eyes at the demon, a flash erupts to his side. He makes to turn, but a second illuminating explosion flares before he knows what to do. It ripples through the smog as lightning in the clouds. A marvelous sight unlike anything he has seen before. And as he makes to see what dare produce it, the sounds of slapping feet fill the air. Krik turns in time see a figure dash to his side.

"Run, boy!" Ero grabs krik and pulls him from his once dumbstruck position! "RUN!"

Krik doesn't know what. He doesn't know what to think. He doesn't even bother. Do what the man says. Run. Run like you have never run before. And so he does. Swift legs roll numbly. He cannot even feel them moving. From his haste he knows full well they are, but his entirety is numb.

A second passes. Sounds of slapping water radiates with each step. Sand sticks heavily to his boots. Water grows heavier. It grows deeper. Krik instantly knows what is happening, and the chills from the waves return him to normality.

"Ero, we are headed out to sea." He can only bring himself to state the obvious.

Ero pants heavily. "There is an island just of the coast. I have seen it. A dozen. Times."

"Ero, that is in the fog! They will find us there." Krik knows not of his persuers, but such information is found trivial. What is of importance now is what the beast's want. And what they plan to do. "What if they catch us?"

Without turning, Ero fiercely, angrily, and rather intimidatingly shouts, "We will not let them. We will do what we must, but they will not catch us." A second passes, their feet sloughing forth. "They will not catch us!" His words are firm, yet broken by his panting.

Krik makes not a response. He doesn't know of one suiting. He simply breathes rhythmically. He attempts to maintain the newfound, unbelievable haste, but he struggles. Something deep within the old man drives him unyieldingly. Krik knows not of what it is, but he can barely keep pace. And as the water sticks to his ankles and slaps his shins, Ero continues to yell back to him...

"Keep running, Krik!" Crazed fury coats the old man's words. "I will be damned if I let them drag us into their mist!"

The water crawls to his knees. It grows deeper with every step. Krik can only follow: Ero's unheard, new tone horrifying. Krik can simply follow in his wake, yet as they move further, the water ever growing, his anxiety consumes him. The boy cannot help but feed upon the untamed moment. He cannot help but fester to the chaos. With it all stirs the one truth now: that whatever hunts lets burn the fire of fear. And even that which normally holds steadfast, finds itself faltering to the inferno of terrifying flames...

And Ero's voice is matching. "They will not take us!" His words suiting. "I'll drown us both before that ever comes to be...!"

With Ero's final words drifts an unyielding, unmerciful stillness sweeps the tides. A silence that matches that strangles one's soul and matches the darkness...of the mist...


	5. Chapter 5: Traitor

Steel boots slush through the shallow tides. Unseen, navy-blue currents part to the catapulting limbs. Weightless particles spill upon fog-ridden winds. Drenched warriors bathe in the sprinkling beads, yet heed not the spray. Crashing waves roar at their shins, yet they near not their calls. Only the sounds of their heaving lungs and pounding hearts echo within their minds. Only the cries of their enemies dance upon their thoughts…

"Run! Run as fast as you can little humans!" Their dark, rolling voices match that of the sea's rumbling waves, "pray for escape!" Vile words bounce menacingly upon the air, deceitful misdirection developed. "Your feet are thundering cannons! And your hearts…their little cries play for our ears!"

Echoing calls make it impossible to track the enemy's position. One minute the villains boom as if inches away. Another they are as distant as Darkshore's coasts. Neither warrior attempts to turn. Their eyes are as untrustworthy as their ears. Even the foe's stench is lost, the salty air and whipping winds masking the source fully. With senses dulled it falls upon wit and hope for navigation.

It falls upon…faith…for survival…

"Ero!" And Krik's belief is lacking, "where is this island?" he pauses, a dreadful thought entering his mind, "I sure hope your plan doesn't involve running the sea to Azuremist!" His voice worrisome yet firm.

Ero holds hesitant. He can picture the miniature, rocky bastion clearly within his mind. Alas, the distance draws him to uncertainty. "Just keep running!" Heavy iron soles slough through the watery deeps, "trust me, Krik! Just keep running!"

Krik takes a deep breath, inhaling pockets of salty mist and choking fog. He coughs, growing further agitated. And as treads the tides, the sounds of crashing iniquity rising from behind, he finds what little patience remains teetering towards the edge.

"Ero!" He stumbles upon a hard object under his foot – a rock, certainly. He keeps his balance, yet loses his calm, "you have lost your mind, old man!" Harsh winds slap the sides of his face and stings his eyes, "there isn't any island, Ero! We have to stop and face them…"

Haste dissipates from Ero, his mind altering. With a heavy gaze, fury burning within his eyes, Ero retorts, "Stay your tongue," he takes a deep breathe, his lungs waning, "you have no idea the horrors that await when you stand against the Kvaldir." Another deep inhalation, his partially casted eyes directed for both that waits ahead and that which stands behind. "Kill one. Five rise in his stead."

Krik smirks, "Numbers? So trivial, Ero." He squints, following the shadowy man before him, "That is nothing," Ero breaks momentarily, his sight falling forward once more as the pompous boy speaks, "the more the merrier!" Ero cocks his head back at the child "Let them…"

Suddenly the old man twists, eyes widening. Skidding in the muddy bed below, he shoots an arm rearward at the boy while he spins awkwardly – his moving body unable to overcome his own acceleration. Krik stumbles to the side while the old man hollers, "Krik! Look out!" Flipping forward as he does.

An unnatural gust of fierce air spirals betwixt the duo. Blurred shadows rocket into sight and end in a torrent of thrashing waters. A vibrating, wooden shaft oscillates, impaled in the sea floor. Ero careens uncontrollably into the mist, tumbling onto a bed of solidity while Krik finds himself falling backwards into the briny deeps.

Chilling prongs prod and poke at his already moist arms and upper chest. Fluids flutter around his smooth facial features and send icy tingles across his scalp. Frost snaps at his eyes and forces his lungs to clenching as he deeply inhales the mixture of salt and ice.

Instantly he jerks from the depths, the waves clutching at his person. Tugging at him, the waters dare attempt to drag him back down, but he overcomes them with brute force. Sitting upright he takes a set of short, harsh, bitter gasps at air.

An iron mitt with a fine leather palm wipes against his brow, swiping the water from his face. He is slow to recuperate, the ice hampering his progression. He is lacking in thought, the tides distracting. And then, as his body settles and his mind realigns does he find his properly misplaced anxiety.

Despair strikes him into frenzy. Krik twists and turns, throwing himself to his feet in a noisy, raging display. Upon one knee, he draws his blades and peers into the fog. He is not certain of his position. He is not certain of his direction. Even as he throws his head side to side, ever watching eyes yearning, he is unable to find any sign.

Carefully, quietly, he pulls to his feet. Bent knees prep for battle and sharp, unblinking eyes search. He makes not a noise nor emits a yelp. One can only hope that the enemy is as blind as he. Alas, he knows that is a fool's prayer. He knows…

"Which way to go?" A loud cry rumbles, and unlike the previous bellows, this one's position is exact. "Which way to safety?" Diabolical, despicable, devious words ring with a coating of glee, "Oh, how boring it would be to grow so lost, yet know not of your impending demise! Here...let us aid you..."

Suddenly, as if commanded, the haze lessens. Once a wall of gray now stands a sundered, intermingling collage of silver, gray and black. Amidst the ever-lightening fog appears a trio of foul, looming creatures that hold as mere outlines.

Silhouettes as dark as night slowly, eerily creep forward. Every step taken casts away the darkness and the features once lost to the boy's nightmares reappear. Krik grips his blades firmly. Though they are minuscule in the giant's wake, he knows their points shall be sufficient.

But quaking legs and trembling arms speak a different tale...

And voices as damnable as any demon echo across the heavens, "We would hate for your end to be a surprise," the set halts, shoulder to shoulder, spear to spear, "we would hate for you to go…peacefully…"

Spears are lifted. Legs are braced. And though the boy cannot see it, he can feel the rancid smirk that molds upon the monster's maw as the final second passes…

"Mist consumes you, boy!" Bounding forward, the pack lunges for the assault. Metal tips are drawn for a killing blow. Swift feet carry the beasts through the shallow currents and for their target, "The end is…"

Yet as they slam heel to toe, they are instantly halted…

"Enough!" Shattering the air as if a cannon's blasting, a voice spans the skies and commands all born witness to its beckon, "this one…is mine…"

Dismayed, Krik takes a feeble step rearward. The voice reverberates wildly, echoing within his mind as a haunting memory. He throws his gaze upon the halted trio, their spears lowered, their figures upright. As he gawks forward the haze creeps back in, shrouding all. And in a few fleeting moments the monsters are lost.

In their wake appears a single figure, shorter than the rest. It holds perfectly still as if a shadowy mirage. Krik's eyes land upon the new appearance, feasting upon all details available. But it is lost in the mist. It is but a faint construct…

But its voice defines that which is lost to the eye, "You are one of the woman's servants, aren't you?" It shifts forward, the fog and water parting to its sway, "Yes, I do believe I recall you speaking to her." Closer it draws, "Why did she send you here, child?"

Krik flinches, the voice overwhelming. Never before has he heard a boom of its magnitude. Never before has a mere bay alone shattered his sanity. As his legs falter, his arms numb, and his fear grows, he gets a shadowy view of the ever approaching being.

Draping its shoulders is a heavy, tattered cloth. Frayed edges dangle down to its torso, running into a circular collection of fabrics that encompass its legs. The cloak holds loosely to its sides, yet shows no signs of arms; though, the fog still leaves much lost.

"Fear got your tongue?" As it speaks, another step taken, dull rays of amber and auburn ripple across that which should be its face, "or are you simply ignoring me?" Rivulets of illumination pulsate while a set of bright, beaming gems slice the haze with ease. "ANSWER ME!"

Fires roar from the two spheres – infernos of eyes. Raging flames billow from the spanning, interconnected pits. Krik's maw sunders, yet no words are emitted. He has not a clue what the beast speaks of. Simple escape is all he reckons now. But the mist closes in around him. Fog strangles his senses. There is nothing of simplicity here. Only the pressing walls of instability that smother his person. Only the dark being that treads the tides. Its burning orbs fixated.

"You will tell me where she is. You will tell me your purpose." Another stomp released. "You will…"

As the demon moves upon Krik, all hope devoured by the smoldering embers, a flash erupts in the corner of his eye. Repeating as it had once prior, the golden ray burns brightly. It is the light amongst the darkness. Rolling through the fog, dissipating as rapidly as its birth, the light sweeps the land caresses his person and vanishes into the nothingness.

Shifting in its spot, the creature before him flinches to the spark. Curious cinders scan the haze, yet lose what they previously yearned for. Loud footsteps erupt from Krik's side – sounds of slapping sand colliding upon his ears.

Once again the old man grabs his arm and pulls him through the mist. They move but a few yards, and to the boy's dismay, the mist vanishes. He throws his head rearward, the fog still present, yet where they stand the haze is naught. However, as he casts his gaze upon the thicket of gray, he can still feed upon the embers – their fire ever present…

"Krik, forgive me." The boy strays not from his target. Ero grows concerned as the pale child gazes uneasily into the mist, "Krik? You ok?"

Suddenly Krik is given a weak shake and his eyes snap from the haze. Landing upon Ero, he blinks once and feebly emits, "Ero…" he glances into the fog once more. This time: nothing. "Ero…"

"What is it boy?"

A moment passes.

"Ero, something…something is in the fog…"

Ero sighs. "Just be thankful we are free of it."

Footsteps ring in the old man's wake and Krik twists. Krik finds the man marching towards a steep, jagged peak that is no bigger than a small hill. It is now that Krik notices a dull, yet clearly visible violet hue that encompasses the peak's edge. A purple outline that matches the flickering fingers of the rising sun…

Yet it is the sheer lack of mist that baffles him. How in the world did they go from complete darkness to a serene scene of normality? It is simply overwhelming. Yet, as the riddles rattle his person, he feeds onthe light upon the horizon. Maybe it all has something to do with that light. And it would seem that the old man has the same idea…

"Krik, move!" Ero shouts , "I heard some voices over the ridge here. Let's pray they aren't related to our friends back there."

Krik swiftly, nervously, departs the fringes of the fog and takes after him; however he keeps his mind upon the recent occurrences. "Ero," he jogs to the quick-walking man, "I am telling you there is something in that fog!"

"Really, now? Did they throw spears and shout hate at you while you ran?"

"No, Ero, this was different. It had fire eyes and was…doom…"

Ero throws a weak glance rearward and cocks a puzzled glance at the boy, "You were seeing things. Don't worry," his eyes drift forward once more, "it happens to everyone in the mist."

"I don't know Ero, it was pretty spooky. You had to be there…" he hesitates as his own words overwhelm his train of thought, "…Ero. What happened to you back there?"

Without flinching the man speaks, "When I stumbled out of the fog," he throws a heavy leg and grunts as he pulls himself up the first section of the sloping wall, "I lost sight of you." Another long stride and another pause, "And it hit me as I searched for you in the fog: the mist had taken you. Once it does, only you can fight your way out."

Krik makes to reply, but stumbles on his words as he pursues the man. After a few seconds of thought he grunts and peers inquisitively at the man, "Then how did you pull me out?"

Ero twists backwards, startled by the boy's question. He wasn't anticipating a follow-up to his previous response. Uneasy, the man sets his sight at his palm. Within his grasp rests the answer to Krik's words. Oddly, he feels compelled to throw his gaze upon the misty bug-jar that still holds intact at his side.

A multitude of responses form within his mind. A grand concoction of replies congeals within his bewildered head. And as he holds still upon the rock face, the fog broken, his sight clear once more, he finds his way still clotted with haze – this time the thicket formed of uncertainty.

However, before he is forced to replying in manners undesirable, a nearby voice rings, "We are almost set to leave." It is an odd voice: raspy and harsh, yet overlaid with a demonic, scratchy echo. He has heard this kind of voice before. "Fill the hold and prepare for departure. Little time remains to catch with the main fleet."

Then, if his own ears deceive him, a second voice takes over. A familiar feminine chime, "Move it! You heard the Death Knight, we haven't much time!" That answers the previous dilemma – the initial odd, reverberating tone a Death Knight's to own. "If the fog dissipates before we leave then we will be left behind!"

This second voice, however, he knows all too well, "Lift with your legs!" Only one vile creature procures such a ring. "Come on, you idiot! No! Don't drop it! Ah!" Only one woman, "Orc, what is your major malfunction?"

The Night Elf from Darkshore. The Mistress…

Instantly a knot of rage builds within Ero. Krik too feels an uneasy twisting within, yet must confirm what he heard, "Ero? Is.."

"Yes, boy." Clenched teeth expose Ero's rage, "I believe so."

Grunting, Krik takes no effort to restrain himself. Bounding up the remaining rock wall, he makes for the final assurance for his reasoning. Ero makes to grab the boy, but he is too fast. In a flash he pulls to the summit, glances over the rock and angrily whispers.

"it is her." Ero pulls to his side, letting the sight fill his eyes. "That…that…woman!" His anger displaces his vocal capabilities as he gazes onward.

Before them both rests a small, makeshift dock. At its side is an oddly crafted, sleek vessel that holds against the frail station with an equally as weak ramp. Mounted upon the curved front of the ship is a large lantern. Emitting from it is a purple aura that shines like the moon itself. Within the span of the shining beacon are stout, leathery orcs that scurry wildly across the platforms, moving crates as if their lives depended on it.

Standing upon a small rise, overseeing the workers, is an orc clad in heavy, black metal. Skulls are crafted into his shoulders, while white hair drapes down the rune-littered back. From here, one can make out the plumes of blue smoke that rise from its eyes. The Death Knight.

Next to him, waving her arms and shouting as if the Lord's Queen, is the despicable Night Elf that they know so well. Ero doesn't know what irks him most: the orcs that hunted them and aimed for their lives, the Kvalidr that chased them through the fog, or this...

Their supposed leader amongst their hated enemy.

Oh, how he is unsure of what vexes him most. He survived the two initial fights ordeals and expects their actions as normal. They are his born foe, and to act differently is wild. But this. This is beyond the man's reasoning. So he knows the answer is clear. His stomach wrenches as she whispers to the grotesque orc and cackles.

How _very_ clear the answer is…

He can stand orcs and bloodthirsty marauders. But he cannot tolerate…traitors…


	6. Chapter 6: One Truth

Activity stirs upon the rocky coast. Laborers haul the remaining crates and other various supplies upon the sea-faring craft while their keen supervisors watch on. Numerous, armed troops patrol the fringes, scanning the waters as if they can truly pierce through the barrier of haze. Yet, despite all the tilling, lifting, and working it is with the two upon the ridge where Krik and Ero's attention lies.

Heavy, black plate shifts upon the shoulders of the white-haired knight. Sleek brown leather hugs the swaying body of the Mistress. She spends much of her time chatting with the vile, green-skinned abomination. Occasionally, she throws a lone hand upon a hip and shouts, the free hand to wag angrily at her target.

Ero taps a dusty stone with an armored digit, drumming his frustration away. He already despised that vile temptress, but this is beyond comprehension. Loyalty was always key to the woman, yet look at her, standing beside her _hated_ enemy. Fire runs the old man's veins as he fathoms what actions should be taken next.

Alas, as much as he tries he cannot muster a thought beyond impaling her on the rocks where she stands and then gracefully marching back into the fog to await the actual truth found within it. At least he knows death is inevitable in that haze. Of course, he still knows rationale reasoning must be obtained.

Honestly, other than his wild fury restrained he bears bewilderment as a second characteristic. It was nearly impossible to march through that mist let alone make it to this isle, yet here she is. Clearly she has been here for quite some time too – she seems too…comfortable.

It must have been part of her grand scheme: send the fools aloft while she waits for them on this island. When they arrive she ambushes them and takes more heads for her collection. Though, that sort of planning is rather mundane. Childish and petty, to be precise. This spilt-tongue monster is more of a grand strategist – the bigger the picture the better.

As hard as he might, he cannot piece together a reason why she would have sent them off. Ero frowns, his thoughts racing. Faster his fingers dance, a second one now in play. He rubs his chin with the other hand, gazing down at the pair.

Finally, his frustration overwhelming, he speaks to himself out loud, "Why oh why did she send us here?" It is but a whisper. "Why would she send us to where she was headed?" A farrow brow matches his baffled tone, "Did she simply want to end us before she defected? Or…"

Though, as soft as he speaks, Krik is able to hear every puzzled word. And as the boy grips the stone, his thoughts as jumbled as his companion's, he knows there is only one true way of discovering the truth, "Let's ask her, shall we?"

Bounding from the hiding peak, the boy brashly takes to his own plotting.

"Krik!" He shouts with a loud whisper. "You fool! They will see you…"

Alas, Ero knows that is exactly the point. Sighing, all reason thrown to the wind, he takes off after the child. He truly wishes to halt the boy and drag him back into hiding. But he also knows that Krik won't do so without kicking and screaming.

Swiftly, and with heavy, loud stomps, Krik descends, making as much noise as possible. Boulders chip and bounce, rolling and clanking with grand force. It takes but a few moments for Krik to make it down half the slope, Ero at his heels.

It also takes the exact amount of time for the boy to get his desired reaction, "Mistress," the death knight pivots, reaching for his blades, "we have company!"

Dust parts to his twisting feet. Swift hands jerk iron instruments of destruction into play, their blades glistening in the purple glow of the ship's lantern. Death's armor creaks, while shifting soles screech. Lingering in an arch matching that of his twisting body, blue trails mark his path past and present; it is the ever-present taint of death found within his cursed eyes. He is swift and his focus fierce. Krik's legs falter briefly as the orc throws his furious gaze upon him…

"Dare sneak up on a veteran of Northrend…" he pauses, eying the boy fully as he hunches for an attack pose, "…humans? What kind of trickery is this?" He uprights, yet keeps his blades at his sides, "How in the world did…"

"Impossible!" Silencing the death knight, his demonic voice's reverberation still lingering is the rather perplexed and wide-eyed night elf, "This…this is…simply…impossible…" her arms are limp while her gleaming eyes shift back and forth in their sockets, scanning the duo before her. A gentle maw, their maroon lips quivering, forms a frown born from dismay and despair.

A look the two have never witnessed before. She seems…startled. Alas, such a state only holds for so long. And in its wake blooms the piercing orbs they fear so much, and the tongue that draws even the death knight's blade to envy…

"Don't you two idiots know where Zoram'gar is?" Her once calm voice shatters the heavens and forces the orc to alter his gaze upon her – he the one confused now. She hurls an arm to the side, attempting to point at something through the mist, "Over there! Over on the main land! Not here, you kodo stains!"

Though her frustration is wildly evident, the confusion they thought lost still lingers with her rambling. The orc, now clearly more alarmed by his normally not-quite-as-angry counterpart, eyes her as if seeing her for the first time and calmly asks, "Mistress? Do you know these two humans?"

Casting her eyes upon him, she inhales deeply. She attempts to restrain her fury, yet her shaking body and clenched fists hide its might. Her rage slows the duo, yet they continue. They remain determined, her rage common and petty. They move within yards of the other pair, eying both fiercely – a sudden strike would be devastating at this distance.

The Mistress, inhaling and exhaling calmly now, takes a moment to compose herself as she finalizes a response to the orc, "Crok. You said you sent your best men to deal with them."

Interrogating words roll off her tongue and draw a cocked brow from the orc, "Mistress I am not quite sure what you…" his words trail and his eyes drop to the ground as he loses himself in thought. A moment passes and he refocuses. Quite baffled he replies, "Are you telling me these two are the ones you wanted dispatched?"

Angrily she nods, her silence intensifying her fury. Crok, the orc, glimpses over to the now stationary pair of ironclad warriors, examines them head to toe and glances back at the woman, "Apparently they were more capable than you gave them credit for."

She gasps, "Don't you defend them, Crok!" A hand on her hip and the other forming to an arrow of accusation, the woman takes her infamous pose of scolding, "You told me that you sent you _best_ soldiers to make sure these two imbeciles never made it here."

Insulted, the orc returns a gaze matching her anger, "Do not question my reasoning or my soldiers, night elf. I sent four to deal with them, and, if they were unfortunate enough, one was tasked to end them. Make sure if the other three didn't capture them as requested then their knowledge would be washed away with the tides."

His eyes shift in their sockets, landing upon Ero and Krik again, "How in the world these two overcame four of my finest is truly unworldly." He locks eyes with Krik and then Ero. His focus parts from the woman and lands fully upon the two humans now. Quite inquisitively he asks,"By what miracle did you three elude capture and the assassin's blade?"

Dumbfounded, Krik shrugs and swiftly passes his eyes, and the torch, to Ero. Ero, however, simply eyes the orc profusely. The old man is not quite certain what the orc is seeking. Though, as he replays the events in Darkshore, the answers slowly return to him. He recalls the assassin very clearly. Every inch and every breath taken by the fiend is forever burned into the back of his brain. The other three, however, are bit harder to remember; of course, the chase that proceeded made that recollection by no means challenging.

It takes but a moment for Ero to form the proper response, but he must play it properly. He is not certain what kind of counter-response this orc will give – violent or otherwise. Keeping his eyes upon Crok, he displays his own confidence and strength. He must make sure that the orc knows that the man has by no means the cowardice in him.

And after a moments passing, the two egos tested, he narrows his brow and finally answers, "Your pack caught us attempting to flee towards the Ashenvale border." Ero, his eyes never flinching, never blinking, stays fixated, "They were swift yet they could not catch us."

Crok's eyes begin the hunt, searching for the truths behind the man's words. He gnarls his lips and replies firmly and calmly, "Highly unlikely that you outran my elite." He keeps as determined as the human, "What about the assassin?"

Ero, at this point, normally would have lied to discover the orc's wit and resolve. But Ero knows better than to mock a Death Knight, "I faltered to his might, but my companion saved me. Your assassin knows now the judgment he has most likely passed to so many others."

"Be specific, human." Delicate, deciphering plumes of clear, blue smoke rise from his surveying optics. The human before him is truly not that of the Mistress's detail. There is much more power and cunning beneath his sickening, green eyes. Yet, for what he has seen the human knows not of lies and deceit. Though, it is now his turn to begin his own test, "You telling me you willingly admit your failure? That your humanling here prevented your demise?"

Without pausing, Ero replies, "Yes. Krik killed him. One on one. Face to face."

Shifting gaze, the orc eyes Krik with disgust and snorts, "You bested my assassin?"

Krik hesitates, not sure of what the orc is planning. He turns to Ero for advice, the old man nodding despite the fact he looks not at the child. Sighing, Krik turns back to Crok and answers, "That is right. He jumped Ero. Neither of us heard him coming. We tried to stay hidden, but he caught us before any other. The old man here would be dead if it weren't for me."

Crok takes a moment to disgust the words. To Krik's dismay the orc nods, "It would seem that my boy earned his keep. If your words are as truthful as you seem to be, then the rogue disobeyed my orders. And, given the stench of death that wafts from you, it is certain that he dead." A stern frown forms on Crok's face, "Tell me, how did an infant such as yourself gather the strength to overcome a veteran of guile and mobility?"

Krik takes a moment, gathering his thoughts. Puffing his chest, his confidence and pride displayed, the boy responds, "With constant aggression, swift arms, and unyielding onslaughts. Keep the monster to retreating, while you wait to overpower his agility." Krik's eyes land upon the orc's, "Attack until your lungs fail and your body collapses. Or until your foe falters and you drive your sword through his heart."

A wide, eerie grin stretches the orc's face, "Lok'tar Ogar, human. A warrior is in you, that is for certain." His eyes drift back to the Mistress, "It would seem that your jokers here are far more competent than they are credited for."

She snorts, shaking her head in disgust, "They got lucky," her eyes land upon Ero, "though, that streak may end with their misfortune of finding us." Fiery eyes drift back to her compatriot, "Now how do we deal with them now, Crok? They clearly know too much."

"That is true," he sighs, turning back to his ever-working troops. They move as if the shouting is of no importance; the situation of their leaders insignificant. That or they already know the fury of this banshee. "Time is almost up. We don't have resources to send them to Zoram'gar nor the audacity to force them back through the mist alone…"

"They survived once. I am certain they can do it once more." No thought passes with her judgment - it was her clear verdict. Truly evil, that woman is.

Ero, angrily eying the woman, finds this moment suiting for his verbal attack, "Words of a betrayer, through and through."

"Betrayer?" Pivoting, she stares upon Ero. Oddly, she smirks, his words comical, "Human, petty factions play little in what is happening here. Do not confuse my dealing with these orcs as insignificant as your idiotic feuding."

"Then what should we confuse it for?"

She glares at him, this human possessing the ability to aggravate her with ease. Sometimes, she wishes that he wouldn't speak. Sometimes…she almost wants to cut his tongue out. Alas, there is no time for that.

"Nothing of importance to you, old man." She dismisses the human, her focus falling back upon that of which is significant, "Crok, send them to Zoram'gar by whatever means. They have no place being here and they are wasting what little resource of patience I have left."

Crok eyes the back of the woman's head with disdain. He sighs and turns towards the humans and shrugs. "Forgive me, humans, but I do as I must." He motions towards the fog, "it would seem our paths must part here…"

"What do want us to do?" Krik shouts, "Run back through that fog? Pretend we are escaping your team of ruffians again?" Rage consumes the boy, "Oh, do you want us to fight the sinister giants made of seaweed while completely blind too?"

Crok cocks his eyebrows again, "You outran my soldiers in the fog?"

Krik pauses, that not the question he was expecting. "Yes? How did you want us to escape them? Three on two didn't seem quite fair, honestly. Of course, if I knew that giant green men and a demon with fire eyes were waiting in the mist I would have took my chances."

The Death knight shakes his head in disbelief, and oddly, the Mistress casts a cheek back upon the conversation, "That, lad, is impossible. My soldiers are equipped to traverse the haze…they should have surely caught you…"

Krik throws his hands into the air, "What is it with you and your soldiers? They failed, who cares?"

"Because my men don't fail, boy." He angrily thrusts his arm to intensify his command, "Now be gone. Do as the Elf says and find your way back to the main land. May fate be with you."

Krik takes a step forward, "What do you plan to do if we don't leave?"

Standing upright, his power felt, the orc makes for intimidation, "Then you face me, child."

"Ha!" Krik, his arrogance grand, laughs at the Death Knight's response, "I just ran from three giants and escaped the wrath of a monster that terrified me with his voice alone. Scare me. Kill me. It doesn't matter. But since I didn't cower when you spoke then you know nothing of…"

Interrupting him, the night elf turns and speaks with disconcerting fixation, "What did you see in the fog, human?"

Krik remains still, the sudden return of the woman altering his entire course of reasoning. However, the woman has no time for his faltering, "Human, what did you see?" Her voice rises, alarm sparking from her words, "What did you see?"

"Um…a being with red, fiery eyes." Krik flinches, "Red markings on his face…and…."

Swiftly she bounds for him, grabbing his armor, "Was he covered in chains?"

Startled, Krik stumbles on his words, "I…I don't know…"

"Did he speak to you?" She speaks harshly and fiercely, yet her words wreak of distress, "Did he? Tell me!"

Krik blinks, mustering what little voice he can beneath her towering, furious woman, "Yes…"

"What did he say?"

"He…he was looking for someone…"

Her eyes widen. Quivering lips flutter, this time born of some greater anxiety. She makes to speak, but whatever catches her mind strikes her incapable.

Krik, however, thoughts running his mind, blinks and says what she fears most, "Actually…I think he mentioned you…"

Once glorious colored skin turns white. Fires fade from her once commanding orbs and complete fear wafts from her as an overwhelming aura; the trio beside her is smothered in it, drowning in that which they never thought she could produce.

"Get everyone on the boat, Crok." Softly she speaks, "Get them on the boat…"

"Ha…ha..ha!" Booming across the horizon, a laughter unknown to Crok and Ero, horrifying to Krik and the Mistress shatters all and brings stillness to the air. All grows silent in the wake of the call, "Mistress, how flattering! Such a grand display of emotions. Such a marvelous concoction…of fear…" his target trembles, that of which she dreaded upon her. "And all of it for me. How splendid!"

Her eyes drift upon something behind Krik, oscillating frantically. Pivoting, the boy and old man turn to have their foolish fill. Ice encompasses the boy's stomach and numbs his limbs. Before him, on the ridge from whence they came, holds a figure he unwillingly recognizes. Except now…he stands clear from his haze…

Holding tall, his shoulders firmly rolled rearwards and his chin cocked, the monster peers down at his audience. Heavy iron boots smash the rocks beneath them and run half-way to his knee. Whatever material that holds to his person is lost beneath numerous overlapping loops of chain that run from his stompers upwards.

Each interconnected chain link is independent, forming not chainmail as expected. Yet together they form a mesh of armor that converges beneath a circular disk upon each knee before reappearing to reconnect once more at a massive iron buckle. From here, one cannot even see much of the being's legs – if they truly exist at all...

Upon his chest are the same matching links, yet they are sporadic and few. His arms, however, pushing back a heavy cloak that hangs around his torso, are crafted of the same metal chains. Precisely as his legs, the iron strands run from both his upper and lower sections and end at certain focal point – his elbow for his arms. However, upon his massive, hulking metal gauntlets dangle a set chains with hooks attached. Three of which run from his hands and vanish into the fog behind him.

"My, my, what a gathering of persons!"

Navigating upwards, Ero and Crok discover the wide shoulders devoured by the bulky cloak and the head from which the grand bellow rains. A solid black face is intensified by jagged rivulets of pulsing red and orange. All is glorified by a pair of burning, piercing embers that flicker as if burning coal.

"And to think, all of it would have been lost if it weren't for your servants!"

The Mistress tightens her grip upon the poor boy as she hears the words. Rage boils within, the two the clear bringers of this moment. Alas, her fearful state crushes the fiery waves within. The demon, however, feasts upon the woman as if he and she are one,

"Oh, do not hate them so, Mistress. I would have found you eventually." He claps suddenly, the many chains upon his arms shaking and clanking eerily, "And I would have slinked from the fog to ram my hook into your spine, just to see the expression I see now. Ohhhh, so glorious." He groans as if awkwardly satisfied, "Be Thankful! They saved you from such a horrific fate!"

Gentle waves of fire run from his skull, while a lone line of red carves what can only be noted as a diabolical smile, "Of course, that simply means I have to kill them too. Sorry, but you did bring it upon yourself, gentlemen!" Suddenly, and oddly he snaps his finger as if recalling something, "Oh, and Crok, I do believe I overheard you speaking of your men. You spoke so highly of them. But, like all the others, they tapped a dance just for me when I commanded."

As he speaks movement stirs in the fog, the trio of links shaking wildly, "Oh how impressed I was by their willpower, I only found it suiting to return them to you." Black outlines appear at the precipice of darkness, "Think of it as a little departing gift." Humaniod shapes are defined, "I would hate for you and the Mistress to leave without my blessings…"

Emerging from the fog are three stout, leathery figures. Once silhouetted by fires, now encompassed by masking darkness, the trio of orcs stands above and before the ironclad warriors as they had once before. Moving in front of the monster, they form a barrier of flesh and blood. They appear normal, say for their eyes which are white – as if they have rolled into the backs of their heads. And the new addition of a single chain that runs from each of their backs to the demon behind them…

"Mistress, how I have missed you." His words vile and maniacal, "And oh, how I still yearn for you as my greatest prize." The trio of orcs hunch in unison, their unheard command obeyed, "But don't fret. In due time, my lady, you will be mine…"

They ready for an attack, their fury ready. Our pack, lost in the sight before them, are not prepared for the assault to come. Crok and Ero are overtaken by the sight, while Krik and the Mistress yearn for only escape. And all…are overwhelmed by the bay of the monster. All are smothered by the shattering sway of the monster's voice…and all that he spews…

"Oh, my Mistress, at long last…you will…dance for me…"


	7. Chapter 7: Chains

Stones are kicked and thrown to the might of the assaulting orcish pack. Metal plates shuffle against another, screeching a symphony of rage. Heavy leather soles slap against dry, loosely placed boulders; their gentle smacks radiating as a muffled chime of chaos. A trio of chains, one strung from the spine of a single leathery hide, clank and clack – the many links shuffling to their victims sway.

Ero and Krik snap into position, their blades drawn and daring the foe's ahead. A death knight and his companion hold loosely as they prepare for a full retreat. Both pairs determined upon alternate courses – one set born of ignorance, the other cowardice. But as time grows short, the foe descending upon them, the Night Elf lets full clear her knowledge.

"You idiots can fight if you want," her voice trails to her back-peddling feet. "But…someone…somewhere will miss you."

Ero braces his shield. "Woman, you think we are going to run from some orcs?" He shouts as he takes a quick glimpse at the elf. But what he finds draws him fully. Dismayed, he throws a stern glance at fleeing Mistress and her dark knight. "You cannot be serious!"

Despair grips his heart, yet this situation allows no such notion. Facing the ever-encroaching monsters, he does the only thing he can dare think of: stand his ground. Fortunately for him his companion is not one for such cowardly flight. And so the two stand alone, facing that which they thought evaded hours past. Furious roars rain from the trio. Remorselessness is caked upon the blank, pearly eyes. Hatred glints upon rotten, yellowed fangs. Strength and power exerted upon bounding legs. Seconds are spent, the moment of collision upon them…

Then, snapping at the chains as if reins to a chariot, their master makes his command. Throwing his hands upwards, his fingers dangling towards the ground as if spider's legs, he swiftly halts them. Cackles radiate from the demon as he sweeps his foes.

"Mistress, I am so very disappointed," his voice booms with comical overture. "Your servants will have their turn, but where do you think you are running to, missy?" A single hand is lifted higher, two of the chains shivering as he does. Responding, the orcs snap to their feet, bounding headlong towards the young boy.

Krik prepares himself, yet he knows full well the outcome. These beasts are swift; empowered by not only their own will. His hands lock, knees bent. And as they come within yards, he makes his amends and says his prays.

To his dismay, expecting an impact of earth-shattering proportions, he simply is greeted by the gusts of passing winds. Rattling chains shake ominously to his sides, yet their threat is destined for another. Blinking three times he takes the time to compose himself. That…was…close…

"Boy!" Ero hollers. "Do something…!"

His voice trails as Krik twists. Dumbstruck, Krik watches as his age, rather heavy, companion is lifted firmly over his enemy's head. Held upon the air as if a weightless sack of rice, the old finds himself upon misfortune's wings. And thrown as such, the old man is sent flying, tumbling backwards upon the stony ground.

Reacting fast, Krik snaps to his feet. Rocks stir beneath his iron stompers. The space between the enemies narrows, his target drawing near. Distracted, his enemy knows not of the incoming assault. Swords are drawn. Finely sharpened edges sparkle. One arm is raised. The other lowered.

But before the boy dare release his fury the monster spins. A gnarled, disgusting smirk coats the equally as vile face. Swiftly, with haste unmatched, the orc shoots a leg outward. It catches the boy in the chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. Such force is exerted that poor Krik is lifted clear from his feet, sent flying like his companion.

A tidal wave of pain erupts upon the impact spot, rolling as an expanding shockwave across his chest. It fades fast, numbing as he careens upon the air. The agony reemerges upon his back as a dense object halts his flight. His rear bounces upon the rocks while he holds limply at his sides.

The world becomes a blur. Barely is he able to keep himself upright as he slumps against the boulder – though other forces than his own assist him here. A firm numbness creeps across his person. All senses, all thought remains shaken, his body overwhelmed by the strike.

And as he sits, swaying to his muscle's spastic commands he sweeps the terrain haphazardly - bemused, dumbstruck eyes feasting upon the field. Straight ahead, Ero rams his shield upon the orc's skull, yet the monster is unfazed. The old man is batted away as if a fly – once again he lands upon his back. Ero bonds to his feet ready to strike, but the monster's agility is remarkable…

Unable to hold his head, the boy finds himself drifting uncontrollably towards the coast. Teetering to and fro, he discovers the struggling death knight, his foe bearing down upon him. The Mistress, however, hops and leaps, dodging blows with ease. Tired and worn, Krik tilts his head rearwards. He rests the top of his skull against the rock and sighs. A brief moment is taken to collect his jumbled thoughts, and to realign his actions. His strength trickles back into his veins, but he is beaten. Unlike his companion ahead…

"Come on, ugly," the old man shouts. "You're just too thick-headed to know I already beat your head in!" Ero lunges forward, slamming his shield once more into the orc's face. "Ha! That will…"

Horrified, the old man is sent on the defensive. Axes slam as if tree trunks upon his shield. Stumbling, his might is naught to his foes. Yet as the beast beats down upon him, the old man finds a weakness – a clear folly.

Holding strong, another barrage of blades unleashed, the old man waits. He plans for the moment. He plots for the second. And then, as an instance of tranquility encompasses the two, Ero thrusts. Catching the beast in the thigh, dug straight to the bone, the blow is perfect. Ripping the axe's curved blade from the flesh, he knows the strike was mortal. Blood gushes from the wound, yet the orc makes not a sound. He flinches not…

Ero gazes haphazardly upwards at the enemy, feeding upon his emotionless face. He doesn't express pain. Agony is lost in his flat lips. Anguish is naught upon his piercing, hollowed eyes.

"Do I have to decapitate you, fool?" Ero's words bounce meaninglessly upon his enemy.

To his dismay, a distant voice retorts. "No, you idiot!" The Mistress shouts, her long-ears for more than just show. "The chains! Hack the chains!" She pants heavily between her words. Her strength waning. "Break its bond!"

Snapping his eyes upon the orc's back, Ero finds his target. It arches downwards to the slack of the chain. Dangling feet from the ground, it sways gently. As the old man stares upon the links, the sight of his devotion, he finds an odd sense of peace within it – a demonic display of sanctity upon the metal loops.

Plans and stratagem are crafted. An old man ready for the finale. Leaping to his feet, bounding for the side of the tattered orc leg, he makes to flank the beast. His eyes never part from the chain. His orbs stay fixated as he turns for the assault. Axe lifted. Power exerted…

Unexpectedly, a green limb shoots into view. It slams into the man's arm, and another collides into his back. His eyes shoot to the side, landing upon the impossible. Gripping the man, its position fully altered, is the orc. Wide eyes land upon another void of color.

Ero's maw sunders, the impracticality overwhelming. There is no way this orc could move with that wound. There is simply no way. Yet, as the poor fool is found floating upon the air once more, he knows his supposed truths are facades. He soars as the orc heaves him, and he bounces as the slope and gravity meet.

Ero stares at the sky, feeding upon the gray abyss. He is not sure which is more disconcerting: the pain or the disbelief. A torrent of ideas rolls across his mind. A sea of crashing riddles is born within his mind, yet he ignores it all. Rolling to his stomach and feebly coming to his feet, he lets his instincts guide him.

Of course, at this point in time, he is not sure if he is standing to fight…or flee.

"Fight on, mighty heroes!" Bays the monster upon the hill. "Skip and hop! Dodge and parry! Swing and chop! Ha! Dance your dances, champions! Dance upon my stage, little heroes!" He cackles, tilting his head rearwards with overwhelming joy and arrogance. "Dance…my little puppets!"

His laughter rains maniacally. It wafts upon the field, drowning all in despair. For with it comes the certainty of the disheartening. With it the revelation of impossibility and impending defeat. And as Ero turns, feasting upon the staggering, worn Death Knight and the wheezing woman, he knows the truth: they cannot win this…

Yet as hope wanes for the old man, a sign differing from his current notions appears. A high-pitched scream pierces the air, forcing the man's eye. The death knight's foe swings its arms side to side while its head snaps rearward horrifyingly. It moves blindly, tripping over its own feet. And then, after a second of screaming and hollering it falls forward. Motionless.

A second passes and the enemy upon the Mistress releases the same exact screech of agony. It writhes in overwhelming anguish before promptly departing for the soil below. Ero doesn't know what just occurred. He is unsure if the beast's faltered at their own accord or if their master is planning something darker; though, the shout that follows draws Ero's attention back upon the hilltop.

"You FOOL!" Hatred and frustration slither upon the demon's words. "You have ruined it!" Ero locks upon the embers of chaos. They lead down the slope. Following them, Ero runs the chains resting on the ground. And he finds, standing beside two, snapped strands, a boy. "I will take your heart as a trophy!" Enraged, the demon jerks at the final chain running from him.

The orc turns, facing the child. A twisted frown forms, matching that of its master's. Gnarled fangs quiver, the hatred of it master's born with each spine. Yet as the beast readies, its focus diverted, the old man finds his target. And as the monster makes to strike, Ero assaults.

In a flash the two lunge from their victims. In a blur an orc aims for the kill. In an instant an aged man does the same. Alas it is upon Krik whom the hammer falls. And as the boy draws his weapons to the ready, his teetering body still worn, a high-pitched scream fills the air. Dismayed, Krik braces his weapons as the hollering orc raises its blades.

Yet, as the monster bears down upon the boy it falters, stumbling upon its feet and flopping lifelessly upon the ground. Standing in its wake is the shadow of an aged old man. At his feet rests a severed chain.

A lingering second of overwhelming stillness sweeps the land…

"Well played, humans," disdain and disgust smother the otherwise complimenting words. "It would seem the Mistress and I truly do underestimate you." Overwhelming hatred strangulates every syllable. Gnashing teeth intensifies every rage-filled letter announced.

Ero and Krik twist, feeding upon the monster on the ridge. Chains slither upon the ground, recollecting upon their master. A downward tilted brow and a set of beaming eyes radiate hatred beyond comprehension.

And as the two gawk at the fiend, a soft voice rolls from behind. "Ok, gentlemen. You had your fight," she pauses, allowing the two to turn and observe the fleeing pair's suggestive actions, "now run! Run, you imbeciles!"

Heeding the words without hesitation, the two speed down the slope. Dashing across the unstable terrain, they make for their escape. Adrenaline fills their veins, all other aspects lost. With full speed exerted the two find flat ground and follow the other pair making for the wooden ramp…

"You will not escape me…AGAIN!" A thunderous roar crackles upon the air. Air parts and a blurred image falls into play. Slamming into the ground, sending a shockwave of shattered boulders, is a creature of unparalleled power. All four of the heroes are sent flying, the impact grand.

All four heroes are sent reeling, his booming voice tremendous, "You will be mine, Mistress!"

A cloud of dust rolls upon the air, yet the shadowy figure is clearly visible. Bent knees, hunched shoulders, all scream horrifying intimidation. And as Ero and Krik stumble, their wide eyes feasting upon the being, their hairs stand on end and their blood turns as cold as their iron carapaces.

"You. Will. Be. MINE!"

Throwing a hand forward, he makes for the strike. Snapping upon the air, yearning for the target, a lone chain soars. Startled, the elf makes to evade. She crawls against the stone, yet her speed is naught. Wrapping around her ankle, jerking her violently to the stone, is a vile iron tendril.

Her body slams against the rocks, her lips splicing against the jagged edges. She gnashes at the stone, her finger tips grinding futilely. Dragging against the rocks, her strength useless, a sense of overwhelming anxiety creeps across her spine. As she watches the ship draw into the distance, a death knight helpless before her, a horrifying feeling fills her soul. A drowning sensation of…fear…

She continues to struggle, praying that something will snag upon her; whether it be her hand or a jagged rock that impales her, it doesn't matter. But prays are a fool's hope upon these waters. And as the one dreaded notion of her finale fills her mind, she finds tears boiling upon her eye's edges. Yet it is not fear that drives her to state. It is regret.

Then, as if some unseen angel of Elune hears her pleas, she halts; though she knows what awaits her. It is not a winged being of beauty, but a demon. And though she has played this moment in her head over and over, she cannot bear to face him. She cannot muster the strength she always thought she would have when this end would be upon her…

"Be gone, you insects!" He shouts, to her dismay. "You shall not prevent the inevitable!" She blinks as the words rain not for her. "Fools! I will crush the life from your bodies!"

Disbelief fills her soul. Footsteps echo near her head and roll down to her feet. Rolling onto her back, she cannot resist the urge within. She must see. She must see what is happening. _Unbelievable_, she thinks to herself. This is simply…unbelievable…

Standing to the monster's side, a loose chain wrapped upon his blades is the young moron. The boy tugs at the links, drawing an arm to his strength; outstretched, the entangled mitt is useless. Before her, darting down her chain's path is the second imbecile. He takes a moment to halt, slams his shield into the ground as if some pre-battle ritual, and then he bounds forward.

Yet Ero knows that he has no such likings for traditions or foolish warrior luck performances. All actions he exerts are well calculated and thought out. Say for maybe this; his outright unplanned frontal assault. There is no reason behind this man's attack. There is no logic. Only attack…

And as he nears the villain, both its arms lost in combat, he finds his opportunity. An axe is drawn to the ready. This is it, Ero. Bring this monster justice! Heave the blade strong and true. In a flash he is upon the rather tall, towering monster. Axe thrown rearwards, and…

"ENOUGH!" A swift hand shoots to the side, slamming into the man's skull. "Do you think this is a game? DO YOU!" Jerking at the other arm, whipping the boy as if weightless, the monster draws him. He snatches the boy out of the air, dragging both humans to him. "Death is naught to my fury! An eternity lasting tenfold in my shadow!"

Both humans' eyes land upon the monster's. Raging plumes of auburn hell ripple from a pair of infuriated suns. Rapidly pulsing rivulets of lava glow with profound hatred. All light is intensified, gloried by the darkness of his flesh.

As the monster has them in his twisted clutches, the two heroes find themselves lost in the iniquity. Overwhelming, distraught notions fill their minds. Fear strangulates them. They wish to scream, but such anxiety strike them silent. They make to fight, but such strength makes them as if infants. So they dangle in the mercy of the monster.

"Once I am through with this Mistress, I will…"

"Through with me?" Rains the voice that is as an angel to the pair. "Through with me?" The monster's eyes break from the humans. They land upon the woman upon her feet. They land upon the sundered, broken chain – of a shield's doings. And they land upon a set of hands that glow a bright green color. "Monster, you may have taken half my heart, but you will full well the wrath of its entirety!"

She hurls her hands to the sky, drawing strength from her goddess. "It shall be YOU that suffers, monster!" Earthquakes rumble and roll. Tremors radiate from the ground beneath the monster. "May the planet have as little mercy as you so well know!"

On command, a surge of brown spikes rip from the earth. Entangling brambles wrap around the monster's legs, snap at his torso, and bound for his head. In a moments passing, the once raging beast is consumed, yet his raging fury still radiates from his clutched mitts. The hatred holds as the roots devour his entirety. The malice lingers as his arms are coated in nature's wrath. And then, once the planet itself demands, the two are released.

And without a moment's hesitation, the two set off running. The mistress bounds after them, taking a moment to allow her vengeance to be momentarily satiated. It takes but a few fleeting moments for the trio to leap up the ramp, scale the incline, and bound upon the ship's deck. As if the crew knew that their escape was inevitable, it is already in motion – or they already planned this departure regardless.

Rolling forward, the sails snagging the wind and the rudder plotted, the ship moves slowly. Creeping forward, it takes a minute to gain the strength needed all while the pack stares back upon the monster. The roots hold firmly, yet writhe to the beast within. And as the seconds pass, the ship taking to the sea, the fog rolls in upon the isle. A mist consumes the once visible terrain. A fog devours all.

Yet, as they stare at the shroud, the darkness ever-encompassing, one can almost make out a set of burning lights. As they gaze into the abyss, the settling calm a fool's notion, one can feast a pair of burning embers…that pierce even the darkness…

"Ero, that was…" the boy makes to talk, but he is suddenly interrupted by a slight commotion and a dull thump. Seconds later planks quiver and a loud thud draws Ero's attention. He turns, baffled by the slumped figure on the floor.

The old man peers upward, the Mistress's disdain beaming. He makes for his axe, but a swift gust of wind and a sharp pain ripples from the back of his neck. Energy fades from his person and a thick black haze rolls in upon his sight.

As he stumbles, the betrayal continued once their common foe is thwarted, he glares at the woman. And as the let bit of energy seeps from his body and his strength wanes, the woman speaks as if displeased.

"Fool." Her face is all he can see. Hatred all he can feel. Darkness creeping as he collapses. And her words echo within his mind and haunt his coming dreams, "You have no idea what you have gotten yourself into…"


End file.
